


i feel my temperature rising

by lovelyorbent



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: "research" for this was assessing all the things in my bathroom for fuckability, Anal Fingering, Biting, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Chains, Companionable Snark, Consensual Somnophilia, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, Fight Sex, Frottage, Fuck Or Die, Intercrural Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Object Insertion, Orgasm Delay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding, Size Kink, Slut Shaming, Somnophilia, a hockey game that goes sadly unwatched, fred has to be on the phone with the sluts, is it really dirty talk if it's just spike threatening angel for 10k words straight, reminiscing about the bad old days, sacrilegious discussion of candle fucking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29044017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelyorbent/pseuds/lovelyorbent
Summary: “Oh, well, it’s interesting. See — oh, do you know what a Gnydarian is? They’re like big jelly things that are covered in these cute li’l poisonous barbs — and, well, anyway, mating is really painful and unpleasant for them, you know, because of the barbs, so to continue the species they have to have a way to make not mating even more unpleasant. Basically, they have this glandular secretion that makes them want to — you know, turn down the lights and play something sexy and get with the babymaking, or they get jelly-like in a bad way. Basically a big old endorphin bomb. I have a sample of his blood from when he was here and his testosterone and vasopressin are through the roof and by now he’s probably basically leaking noradrenaline — ”Angel had to stop her before the syllable count on those chemicals started to get too high. “So Spike got — get off my leg, Spike — what, magically roofied?”
Relationships: Angel/Spike (BtVS)
Comments: 73
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyjanee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyjanee/gifts).



> ladyjanee had five kink requests for spangel and i'm going to try to fill four of them (sorry, no hypnotism, i don't think i can do it with a straight face). idk how many chapters that will take me, it kind of just depends on how much these idiots wanna talk versus how much they wanna fuck.
> 
> i will update whenever

When Spike stormed into his office, Angel briefly looked up at him and then wished he’d locked the door that was now swinging on its hinges. He sighed, and looked back at his desk. “What do you want?”

“You. Pronto. Trousers off.”

All right, that warranted a second look. A raised eyebrow, even. “ _What_?”

Spike had already crossed the room to him when the phone rang. He picked it up with one hand while he was keeping Spike at bay with the other.

“Angel.”

Fred’s voice on the other end of the line was soft and sounded nervous. “Um, I just wanted to warn you about a — Spike issue.”

Spike had grabbed his hand and wrenched it upwards to slip under it and into his lap. Angel debated getting out the stake that was in the top drawer of his desk, but decided that was probably an overreaction when all Spike seemed to be doing was trying to kiss him. “I’m being warned in technicolor,” he managed, dodging.

“Oh, so he did go to Harmony,” Fred said, sounding almost relieved. “That’s good, then. She’ll be — ”

Spike took him by the wrist to bring the phone closer to him. “I’m not that desperate. Now hang up so I can close this deal!”

Silence on the line. Angel shoved Spike off his lap, and caught him by the shirt to hold him down when he tried to rise again. “He came _there_?” Fred said, finally. “Um, Angel — ”

When Spike tried to take the phone out of his hands, Angel let out a loud snarl in his direction, pitched to intimidate. It would have sent Spike flying across the room and into a ball if he had been a fledgling; as a master, he flinched and took his hand off the phone, but stood his ground. Fred, on the other hand, squeaked, and Angel closed his eyes against frustration. “Sorry, Fred, that wasn’t for you. Go on.”

“Right. Well, I just meant to warn you that he accidentally got a faceful of Gnydarian Stimulant, so he’s going to be — ”

“Gagging for it,” Spike interrupted.

“If I have to chain you to the wall, I will,” Angel growled at him, but instead of resentfully backing down, Spike shivered and his face betrayed a look of open longing. “Sorry, still not for you, Fred.”

One of those little half-giggles that always accompanied Fred’s big, wide smile when it appeared at inappropriate moments. “I know.”

“So what does it do?”

“Oh, well, it’s interesting. See — oh, do you know what a Gnydarian is? They’re like big jelly things that are covered in these cute li’l poisonous barbs — and, well, anyway, mating is really painful and unpleasant for them, you know, because of the barbs, so to continue the species they have to have a way to make _not_ mating even _more_ unpleasant. Basically, they have this glandular secretion that makes them want to — you know, turn down the lights and play something sexy and get with the babymaking, or they get jelly-like in a _bad_ way. Basically a big old endorphin bomb. I have a sample of his blood from when he was here and his testosterone and vasopressin are _through_ the roof and by now he’s probably basically _leaking_ noradrenaline — ”

Angel had to stop her before the syllable count on those chemicals started to get too high. “So Spike got — get off my leg, Spike — what, magically roofied?”

“No,” Spike gritted out, trying to bat away Angel’s hands from his collar. “I know what horny feels like, and this feels more like dying.”

“No,” Fred echoed, sounding earnest. “It’s biological, not magical. And he’s not Gnydarian, so I don’t know if he’ll _actually_ die like they do, but it’s going to take me a while to figure out how to neutralize it without a Gnydarian here to observe their reaction and — ”

Spike broke in over the end of her sentence. “ — and he doesn’t want to take the bloody chance so he’d like it if you’d stop chatting with your genius squad and shag him blind already.”

Fred made a distressed noise. “Angel, your soul — ”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he’s miserable the entire sodding time,” Spike told her loudly, and then unplugged the phone from under the desk.

Angel looked at the dead receiver in his hand and contemplated whether whacking Spike in the forehead with it would get his point across. Then again, he wasn’t really sure what his point _was_. He just hung it up instead. “I can give Harmony the afternoon off.”

Spike growled at him. “I am not going to depend on _Harmony_ for my life. I do have a few shreds of dignity remaining, and I’ll take my chances with possibly turning into jelly.”

“But what, you’re perfectly fine with depending on _me_?”

Spike looked at him like he was an idiot.

“Well, why can’t you go out and pick someone up?”

The look was beginning to convince him that he _was_ an idiot.

He sighed. “Spike — ”

Spike was chewing on the inside of his cheek. He was looking — well, vampires weren’t supposed to flush much, particularly not without a recent feeding, and they rarely sweated, but Spike appeared to be doing both, color high in his cheekbones and hair beginning to darken at the roots with moisture, almost as if he had a fever. His voice was small. “Sire, don’t make me beg.”

To tell the truth, he was fairly certain Spike could have put a more seductive face on it — Spike could _ooze_ seduction, when he wanted to, Angelus had taught him that — but on the other hand, it panged something primal in him to ignore a vampire of his own line when they called for their sire. He loosed Spike’s collar and sat back in his chair. Paused. Nodded, once. “ — not here.”

The relief on the angular face was palpable. “Where?”

“Upstairs. Wait for me.”

The blue eyes went golden, the expression mutinous. “But I — ”

“ _Go_.”

With a snarl, Spike went. His swagger, Angel noted, was a little wavery. Even with the soul, he usually had problems feeling sorry for Spike — and frankly, this stimulant was far from the worst thing that had ever accidentally hit someone in the face at Wolfram & Hart — but the part of him that had taught Spike the ropes, taking him from a quailing poet to an accomplished killer, would rather see him a bloody heap on the floor than weakened this way.

He flipped through the rest of the papers, signing without reading, and then handed them off to Harmony and said, “Cancel my meetings for the rest of the day. I’m going home.”

“Not feeling well, boss?” she chirped. Then frowned, realizing that vampires didn’t get sick. Spike must have snuck past her — the image of him ducking below the level of the desk was a funny one.

He swept into the elevator before she could ask him what excuse to give.

He was on the phone with Fred again when the elevator door slid open to reveal that Spike’s clothing was lying in a pile on the floor. He rolled his eyes and kicked the heap of fabric to the side. “ — he’s going to be with me. You can call when you’re ready —”

“— I think maybe a day if I work on it around the clock — ”

Stepping out of the lift, he looked around. “Call me if anything comes in that looks important, and make sure you get some sleep. This Spike thing isn’t end of the world material. It’s not even the worst thing that’s happened _to Spike_ this week.”

“But Angel, are you sure that _you_ should, uh — ”

Spike hit him from the side, fully nude, hands trembling as they clawed up his chest to try to pull him down. Angel grunted at the impact and stumbled. “I’ll be okay, Fred.”

The phone dropped out of his hand as Spike scrambled to tear off his jacket. He had to hope Fred hung up when she heard the thump, or whoever was in the lab was going to get an earful. Spike was historically loud — not that they’d slept together for over a century, but he doubted that had changed, based on some throwaway remarks from Harmony — and vampires having sex tended to be energetic. “Soul won’t get knocked loose by buggering me, huh?”

“You know that it won’t or you wouldn’t have asked.”

“Maybe I miss Angelus.” Spike was fumbling with his buttons, and got frustrated after only two and ripped the shirt open instead, shoving it down his arms and then grabbing for his belt buckle. To annoy him, Angel decided he would give him an invoice for the shirt later.

“How do you feel?”

“Hurts. Come on, come on, you son of a — ”

Angel kissed him, half to shut him up and half because, flushed and desperate and in pain, Spike smelled just like he had the _last_ time they had slept together, and it was a good memory. As soon as they were chest to chest, Spike gasped into his mouth and his fingers tightened almost painfully on Angel’s shoulders. His skin was warm to the touch, and Angel pulled back in surprise. “Do you… have a fever?”

“Vampires don’t get fevers. I _want_ you.”

“You have a fever,” Angel told him, brow furrowing. “Did Fred — ”

“Yes, she sodding well looked me over, yes, I gave her a sample of my blood, and if you’re worried about me, get your prick out already, because you’ve got the cure for what ails me, and if you don’t deploy it soon I’m going to think you’re holding out on purpose like bloody Angelus would’ve.”

Spike had him on the floor before he could respond to that, and the button of his pants came flying off when he tugged on them. Angel added it to the mental invoice, but couldn’t say anything rude about it, because Spike was kissing him again, pressing close to him like he was trying to bring as much of their skin in contact as possible. He didn’t waste his words in the few seconds he had where Spike wasn’t attacking his mouth. “The bed — ”

“Know where it is. Don’t care.”

“I have lube — ”

“Not having it never stopped you before — ”

Angel let loose another snarl and shifted into game face to punctuate the statement, snapping his teeth when Spike reared back in surprise and using the momentary lapse to throw him off. His pants falling down around his hips slowed him when he made a dash for the bedroom, and Spike caught him in the doorway, practically climbing up into his arms and toppling him back to the floor. The people on the floor below had to be confused at all the banging around, but Angel decided to face that embarrassment later, when Spike wasn’t hot in his hands and writhing around like he did when he was being tortured.

He took the sharp cheekbones between his hands and forced Spike’s head back, flashing fang at him and producing a subvocal noise of fury. “Childe, don’t test me.”

“I can’t be Will for you right bloody now,” Spike gasped, and tried to kiss him again, only to be stopped by the hands on his face. “Too edgy. Please, Angelus.”

“Tell me why you picked me,” Angel said, flatly, still holding him back. “Why are you depending on me instead of Harmony or some stranger you could pick up in a bar? And don’t say your dignity.”

Spike let out a tempting whine, but it didn’t have the plaintive pitch it would have a century before; instead it sounded frantic. He was rolling his hips against Angel’s leg almost as if he didn’t notice he was doing it. “Angel — ”

“ _Tell me_. Why is it me you need?”

“Because you’ll take care of me,” Spike burst out, sounding annoyed with himself for having said it. “You wanker, I know you will.”

“So let me take care of you,” Angel told him calmly. “Now stop pawing at me and get on the bed.”

He could tell the moment Spike gave in; the wild glow of his eyes didn’t dim, but he stopped pushing against Angel’s hands. His voice was low and resentful. “Don’t want to stop touching you, hurts more when I do.”

Angelus would have punished him for disobedience or talking back. Angel sat up and wrapped an arm around his waist as he stood, picking him up and letting him steal another kiss while he was walking backwards towards the bed, and more importantly, the top drawer of the bedside table. When Spike started squirming in his arms again, Angel dropped him onto the bed and pressed down over him, reaching blindly rightwards with one hand while Spike was shoving at his trousers. He didn’t bother to push them any further than mid-thigh, seizing ahold of him and stroking with one rough hand just as Angel’s fingers found the bottle they were searching for. He left the drawer open, because the stake in there might come in handy if his soul did a runner or if Spike got too annoying.

“Forgot how bloody big you are,” Spike panted, hand tightening around him almost painfully. Just the right amount of pain to get him fully hard, not that that was ever really a problem unless he was too hungry to function. “Been so long, I forgot.”

There was an inescapable part of the masculine ego that purred at the compliment. As a reward, Angel crawled down his body and relished the annoyed noise that Spike gave him until he realized where he was going.

When Angel sucked him down, instead of arching and crying out the way he always had when Dru had sucked him, Spike let out a squeaky sort of sigh and melted into the covers. Either he had changed a lot in a century, or he’d been in more significant pain than he had let on. Given the fact that it was Spike, it could be either, but he suspected the latter from the way that his thigh muscles went liquid under Angel’s hands.

It had been a while. He took it easy sinking down while he was slicking his fingers, and only gagged a little. Spike pushed up into his mouth near the end, and moaned when he choked. When he tried to use the distraction to slip a finger in, he was surprised to find that it didn’t go quite as easily as he remembered. The scent of Spike’s pain when his nose touched that smooth skin reminded him that his body was probably tense from fighting it, and he took his hand away to focus on bobbing his head.

“Been a long time,” Spike told him breathlessly, as if that could account for it, as if he wasn’t always as virgin-tight as he had been when he was turned, and this new resistance wasn’t attributable to something else. When Angel glanced up at him he realized that the long pale fingers were twisted into the bedsheets, twitching like they wanted to bury themselves in his hair, which Spike was more likely than not stopping himself from doing in memory of the way Angelus would have beaten him for it.

He reached for one of those hands and moved it to his head, and that was all the permission Spike needed to bury his fingers in his hair and pull him forward, rocking his hips up into his mouth. Without prompting, he lifted a leg to hook it over Angel’s shoulder and open himself to his fingers — or maybe to use the pressure of his heel on the griffin tattoo to pull him down, to fuck his mouth in little jerking thrusts, too shallow to choke him as long as Angel kept himself backed carefully off. He was getting loud now, predictably, making strangled grunting noises and occasionally gasping when Angel swallowed around him.

His thumb stroked against Spike’s opening, gentle, not trying to push. Angelus would have just forced his way inside, but then again, Angelus wouldn’t have put his boy’s cock in his mouth unless he’d done something that was _really_ praiseworthy. Or unless he had been drunk and unable to deny to himself that he liked it.

He’d managed to get a finger in, groaning around the length in his mouth at the tightness, the unnatural heat of Spike’s body, by the time Spike came. Surely, if he had been a human, he would have been delirious with fever; as it was he swore incoherently as he twisted off the bed, and Angel fit a second finger inside him as his body went lax in the aftermath.

“How long until it’s over?” Spike asked, sounding wrung-out. Angel twisted his fingers inside him, parting them slightly as the muscle loosened around him, and pulled off, letting Spike’s still-hard cock fall against his stomach. He’d never had to take so much care with Spike before, or maybe he’d just never bothered to.

“Until one of us gets pregnant with Gnydarian spawn,” he said drily, and Spike rolled his eyes. He looked better now, clearer-eyed and not quite so hot, and the fact that he wasn’t actively trying to throw a leg over Angel was a definite improvement in his behavior.

“If somebody’s getting knocked up, I vote it’s you. I’ve got a figure to maintain and yours is already shot.”

Definitely feeling better if he had mental space to come up with fat jokes. Angel put his free hand on the leg not draped over his back and pushed it to the side, exposing Spike in a way that Angelus would have told him fondly made him look like a whore. “I’m not the one getting fucked,” he pointed out, since turnabout was fair play. “Fred says she’ll probably have it sometime tomorrow.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’ll shag you too before the night’s out.” He was starting to squirm again as Angel worked another finger into him.

“You could — ”

“No, want this now. Enough bloody fingers, I want you in me.”

“I think another one would be a good idea.”

“Don’t be a pussy, Angelus,” Spike snarled at him, and Angel suddenly realized that his pants weren’t even down below his knees, and so he was probably at a disadvantage in a fight, even with the way Spike was glistening with sweat and looking a little worse for wear. “You’ve fucked me dry and tight before. Used to like it that way. Never did understand it, myself, how you could like feeling like you were having all the skin ripped off your knob, but different strokes, I suppose.”

Angel took his fingers out, shrugged Spike’s leg off his shoulder, and lined himself up, wiping them clean on the comforter and deciding to care about the mess later. “When you’re sore later, don’t come crying to me because you didn’t have the patience for four fingers.”

“Want it to hurt a little,” Spike told him petulantly, and reached for his shoulders to draw him down. Angel suspected it was the skin-to-skin contact he was after, mostly. But being plastered against him wasn’t much of a hardship considering the fact that he was radiating warmth. It wouldn’t have been much of a hardship anyway; whatever else Spike was, you couldn’t deny that he was pretty, just the way Angel had always liked them. Slim, blonde, sharp-tongued. “Want to feel you cracking me open with that thing. C’mon, Angel. Don’t make me invite you in, everybody knows you’ve already been there.”

When he pushed forward, Spike spasmed around him and clung to his shoulders, but he kept pushing until he was fully embedded in the body below him, the long pale neck bared as the sharp chin fell back, his mouth open and eyes unseeing. Spike had apparently forgotten to breathe, or at least he wasn’t doing it now, just letting his face screw up in pleasure at the feeling of Angel inside him. The snug grip of his muscles around Angel’s shaft was fever-hot, as if he were human. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

“Been forever since I had anybody this fucking big,” Spike said through gritted teeth, and cried out when Angel bit his exposed throat with blunt, human teeth. “Christ, do it again, do it again, move, you _paddy bastard_.”

“Who _have_ you had, Will?”

Spike didn’t even seem to register the change of name; he was still thrashing under the grip of Angel’s teeth, and had to be shocked out of it by Angel settling his full weight on top of him with a thrust.

“I said, _who_?”

“Dru!” he cried, like the answer was being forced out of him. It wasn’t the first time he had screamed her name when they were in bed together, but the context was new, at least. “Bloody hell — ”

“Just Dru?”

“Some blokes over the years — candle one time — reckon _that_ was bigger’n you — ”

Angel’s next thrust knocked the wind out of him. “Should have known you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from spreading your legs for too long.”

The growling noise Spike aimed at him for that was half-hearted at best. For his pride, Angel knew he had to, but he knew too that he liked to be talked to like this, at least as long as you struck the right tone with him. Angelus had been the one to discover it, after all — that as long as you purred it warmly enough into his ear, there was no name too demeaning for Spike, no implication too insulting. It had usually taken Angelus _hours_ to work him up into this kind of lather, though: even as inexperienced as he had been at first, Spike had to be pushed hard before he broke. _Usually_. At the moment he was well into that process, so that in a few minutes Angel knew he would be golden-eyed, with a mouthful of fangs, and the hands clawing at his back like a wild thing would probably be drawing blood.

Given how long they would potentially have to keep this up, Angel didn’t really feel like bleeding. He pulled out and knelt back to flip Spike over onto his front — Spike fought him, but mostly he seemed to be trying to crawl back onto his cock rather than away from him, and he subsided when Angel gave him a warning growl and pinned him down to slide back inside him. It was easier going this time, and Spike went limp and relieved again once he was buried deep. It panged again at his sympathies, and he dropped his body weight down onto Spike’s back and rumbled lowly against the back of his neck, comforting him.

It was enough, along with his rolling thrusts, to make Spike yowl and come into the sheets; the occasion marked by the jolt of his body under and around Angel’s. Angel rammed into him harder — once, twice, and then it was over, and he was panting into the back of Spike’s neck, draped over his back.

“Jus’ so’s we’re clear,” Spike slurred, clearly having trouble speaking from being pressed so firmly into the mattress, but otherwise sounding calmer, “’s not your right to be possessive of my arse anymore.”

“I know. Just thought you’d like it.”

“Yeah.”

“A candle, huh?”

A groan, muffled in the mattress. “’s not fair that you ask me things while you’re buggering my brains out.” Then a long pause. “One of those bloody prayer ones with a saint on it. Benedict, I think. Irony cracked me up at the time.”

“Dru?”

“’less you think I’d shove it up there myself.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily put it past you. Doesn’t that burn?”

“Yeah, but not because of the holiness. Fucking thing was thicker around than my wrist. Makes you seem like a limp bloody noodle in comparison, I can tell you that.”

Angel, still inside him, growled lightly into the back of his neck and rolled his hips. Spike made a quiet huffing noise and squirmed under him. “Does it still hurt?”

“Nah, was decades ago, but sometimes when I close my eyes and clench down just right —” He punctuated the sentence by doing just that, “ — I swear I can still feel it.”

It was clearly meant to draw a laugh, but Angel didn’t give it to him. “I didn’t mean the candle.”

Another huff. “Not so much right now, not since you sucked me off. And I’ve got to tell you, Angelus, it feels like fucking magic when it’s happening. I mean, mate, if I were a massive bloody jelly covered in barbs it’d be worth it to get poked a bit if it made me feel like that and not like there’s holy water dripping all over me the way I did before.”

“I’m sure Fred will be intrigued. Make sure to work the candle thing in. It’s vivid.”

“Trust me when I say you’ve really _got_ to work in anything that’s eight inches long. Broke a sweat, I did. Walked funny for two days.”

“Bet Dru laughed at that.”

“She fucked off before I could walk again, actually. You think if you just stay in me like this it’ll be good enough?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“Felt much better after you blew me — thanks, by the way — and better again when you were rogering me. When you pulled out in the middle, though — didn’t go back to _hurting_ so much, but I felt so sodding good when you were in me I could’ve killed you for stopping. Doesn’t exactly hurt now, either, but I feel a bit like when it first hit me. Pressure.”

“Where?”

“Not my arse, if that’s what you’re asking. You’re no Benedict, Peaches.”

“Mm. Bet you still couldn’t walk right now.”

“Because your fat arse is lying on top of me. You went easy on me, mate — reckon I could run laps if it weren’t for magical bloody aphrodisiacs making me all weak-kneed. Lube ‘n’ everything, you old softie. Darla’s little lad, all grown up and having sex like a normal person.”

Angel snorted. “We’re both undead and I’m fucking you because you ate some jelly demon’s glandular secretions and you might die if I don’t.”

“Didn’t eat it. And what’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?”

“My point is, we passed ‘normal’ around the ‘undead’ part of that sentence.”

“Yeah, but I reckon I’d tear anybody _normal_ to shreds if I shagged ‘em right now. At least you’re big an’ bad enough to stop me if I try anything funny.”

That was surprisingly thoughtful pre-planning for someone who had been practically humping his leg in his office downstairs with the door open, and it made Angel remember that Spike had a soul these days, and would actually _mind_ if he tore someone to shreds or did anything against their will. He kissed the back of Spike’s neck. “I’ll take care of you.”

Spike grunted at him and made a pretense of wiggling like he was trying to leave, which put Angel on the way to being hard again more than anything else. “If if you ever tell anybody I said that, I’ll stake you so fast you won’t even be able to tell me who you want to leave all your poncey hair gel to.”

“You. You could use better hair.”

“Touched, but I’d rather have the broadsword.”

The broadsword would have been Connor’s. “Maybe we should talk less while we do this.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i was going to write angel bottoming in this chapter but it just wouldn't happen for some reason (i wrote and deleted it like eight times) so here's more size kink i guess.
> 
> this story kind of has a life of its own in that i want to write porn but they just won't stop fuckin talking. if anyone wants to add kink requests to this you might as well. i don't promise to take them but i'm always open to throwing some more junk in this trunk

Spike had always had the particular talent of falling asleep very rapidly and deeply, although he rarely stayed that way for long — Angelus had hated it, because you could torture him all you wanted, but as soon as you cut him down he would stumble into bed and be peacefully asleep. But that talent appeared to have waned over the years, because after about twenty minutes of silence, he stirred and hummed and said, “Get off me, yeah?”

Angel obeyed, pulled out, and rolled onto the mattress next to him. He disappeared, wobbly-legged, into the bathroom, and then the shower turned on. Angel reached for the clock on the bedside table and saw that they’d barely run out half an hour with the fucking. If you gave Fred twenty-four hours to come up with a way to neutralize this — well, forty-eight, let’s be generous — that was close to a _hundred_ half-hours. Either they would have to start having sex more slowly, or Spike was going to have to start enduring a little more pain. It was only thirty-two ninety-minute periods, but god. The last time he’d had sex that many times in that time period was _never_ , even with vampire stamina. Even with _Darla_ , who had been the dictionary definition of insatiable. He wasn’t sure it was actually physically possible, and if it was, it couldn’t be pleasant.

Hercules had once impregnated all of Thespius’ fifty daughters in one night, he tried to tell himself, as if Hercules was real or a good role model. He _had_ killed his first wife, which Angel supposed meant they had something in common if you counted Darla as a wife. They had also both killed their childhood music teachers, one more accidentally than the other. That was enough similarities to be getting on with, he thought.

He wandered into the kitchen to get blood. With Spike here, it would do to be more well-provisioned, but he sure as hell wasn’t having anyone come up here to restock while Spike was — how had he put it? — gagging for it. At least he had had some this morning before Spike’s little accident.

“Cold showers don’t work when you don’t have circulation,” he yelled into the bathroom when he passed back into the bedroom, picking up a case file he’d been looking at the night before.

“Vampires don’t get fevers,” Spike yelled back.

There was a certain perverse logic to that. Why rule out an impossible cure for an impossible malady? He called Fred again. “So what are the chances Spike actually dies from this? Vampires are hardy.”

“Couldn’t say,” she replied, after greeting him perhaps overenthusiastically. “If he were human he’d be dead already from a heart attack. Are you feeling, um, evil at all?”

“It’s still me, Fred.”

“Well, it hasn’t been that long!”

“Trust me, Spike can’t make me perfectly happy. Not with his vocal cords intact, anyway.”

“Let’s _leave_ them intact,” she admonished him, as if that had been a threat. He had no idea how Spike had managed to ingratiate himself with her so quickly, but she had positioned herself as his advocate almost immediately. He had always had a particular way with women, Angel supposed. It was probably the eyes. They were certainly compelling.

“I’m not going to rip out his throat,” Angel sighed. “How can we tell if he’s dying?”

“Kind of hard to guess, since he doesn’t have jelly anatomy and humans don’t make it to hour two,” she said apologetically. “But judging by his hormone levels, I’d say if he starts getting real sweaty or aggressive, you’re probably looking at the beginnings of trouble. And you need to call me if anything physical starts happening. Not _physical_ , I mean, physical as in, to his body. Physical as in any symptoms, I mean, not _getting physical_ — ”

Fantastic. Spike was already sweaty, and he was _always_ aggressive. “Thanks, Fred.”

He hung up and went back to the case file. When he finished it, he picked up his book. He had made it through about ten pages before he wondered what was taking Spike so long in the shower. He made it through another seven before he decided not to ask. Spike wouldn’t willingly die, so he wasn’t too worried about him waiting too long, and he could hear movement, which meant he wasn’t unconscious.

He was another twenty pages deep before the shower shut off and Spike reemerged, hair damp and curling and color still high in his cheeks. He crawled back into bed wordlessly and slumped over Angel’s side. He was warm, but not as much as before — the cold water had maybe done him some good. “Hate sweating,” he grumbled, and then turned his eyes to the page. “Lewis? You are so bloody boring.”

“I’m guessing you’re reading something really manly.”

Spike hummed. “Heaney.”

“Irish.”

“No point in oppressing ‘em if you can’t read their poetry, I say.”

“How do you feel?”

“Witch-tit cold. But I reckon it helped. Figure I lasted about an hour and some last time before we got up here, which is too many times to fuck if we carry it forward. We got maybe a good fifteen minutes with you lying all over me like a lump, so I figured if I could just slow the buildup a bit we’d be in all right shape. How long was I in there?”

“I don’t know. Forty-five minutes? An hour?”

“So we’re at an hour, hour and a quarter. Nearly beating my record. Doesn’t feel desperate at the moment, so let’s see how long we can take it. Touching helps.”

“Fred says if you start to get aggressive, we’ve gone too far.”

“’m always aggressive.”

“I assume she means something more significant than calling me names. Something like tackling me to the floor twice, maybe.”

“Nah, I’d do that sober.” He read over Angel’s shoulder for a while after that, and it was a little bit like old times, except that Dru would probably be on his other side and they’d probably have been reading some victim’s pathetic diary and laughing at her little follies and foibles. The memory that had seemed nice at first soured somewhat, and he focused back on the text, and the feeling of loss. He wondered whose loss Spike was imagining, and had his question answered when Spike snickered, many pages later. “He really bloody hated dentists, didn’t he?”

“You’ve read this before.”

“’course I have. Dru and I took a shot every time he questioned God.”

“It made you cry, huh?”

“It did not!” Spike protested, which meant he absolutely had. Words had always gotten to him more than anything else.

A time or two before, when Angelus had had Will strung up and whimpering for him, he had sat down to read his own poetry back to him, joking that would break him faster than any whipping. It usually had; Spike had always been much more responsive to humiliation than beatings. The body healed, and he had a prodigious pain threshold, even for a vampire, but his ego was fragile.

After another few pages, Spike reached across his body to grab the clock, and swore quietly under his breath. Angel ignored him and kept reading. “My goal’s three hours,” Spike told him, apropos of nothing. “Next time I’ll make it four.”

“If you wear me out I’m passing you off to Harmony,” Angel replied, deadpan. He didn’t immediately get a response, and when he looked up, Spike was peering at him with narrowed eyes. “That was a joke.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“I realize you’re saving my bacon and all, but let’s just remember this is unpleasant for both of us.” He was looking sweaty again, and the flush had been climbing up his cheekbones for a while, probably, because he was pink to the hairline. Angel hadn’t noticed; sitting against something prevented you from perceiving a gradual rise in its temperature. “And _I’m_ the one with the muscle aches from hell.”

“You look kind of — ”

Spike shook his head. “Not for another — ” he looked at the clock, “Hour.” An hour probably wouldn’t kill Spike, but if it did, it was on his own head, as far as Angel was concerned, and Fred couldn’t blame him for it. Probably. He shrugged and went back to his book.

Spike started to quiver minutely about halfway through his set time period, but he didn’t whine about it. Which was unusual, considering how much he loved to complain. When Angel glanced over at him he was clenching his teeth and had his eyes closed, the lids twitching. The flush had started to get a little blotchy, in that way that especially pale English people often did.

By the 40-minute mark Angel wasn’t paying any attention to Lewis, just to the body next to his, the skin that was sliding against his shoulder in that slightly salt-rough sweaty way. “You know, the time limit is arbitrary,” he suggested.

“Shut the fuck up,” Spike gritted out, which was predictable. Spike had a lot of bad qualities — a _lot_ of bad qualities — but he wasn’t a quitter. Angel rolled his eyes, but kept staring at his book as if he was seeing anything other than vague black squiggles on the page. There was a little growl, which wasn’t menacing in the slightest, mostly because Spike was grimacing more than glaring. “And stop getting turned on. You’re making it worse. Idiot.”

Angel looked pointedly at his crotch. Spike was hard and leaking and his stomach muscles were shaking as if the effort of not moving was undoing him. “Pot. Kettle.”

“ _I_ have an excuse!” Angel tried to infuse his expression with as much disdain as Spike infused most of his expressions with, but instead of being cowed, Spike bared his teeth and drifted closer. “God, fuck, _tell_ me it’s been an hour. And stop _looking_ — ”

To shut him up, Angel kissed him, and Spike broke, clawing his way into Angel’s lap and biting down on his lip so hard he nearly drew blood. Twenty minutes early, by Angel’s count, but he didn’t really care about the stupid time limit. Three hours had probably been a little long to wait anyway, if the scorching heat of Spike’s body was anything to go by. It couldn’t feel good, to be so hot; he didn’t remember quite what having a fever felt like, it had been too long since he had had one, but he didn’t know anyone who enjoyed them.

When Spike tried to move Angel’s hand to his erection, Angel _tsked_ at him. “Twenty more minutes.”

For his trouble, he got a snarl and he got shoved into the headboard hard enough that it groaned. “I will crack your ribcage to pull out your heart, Angelus, I swear.”

Angelus had never favored this position — it gave Spike too much leverage, and too much access — but he could see the appeal of it now. It put Spike’s face a little above his, so that he didn’t have to bend down to kiss him, and forced his legs wide, pressed the bones of his iliac crest forwards against his pale skin so that the place where Angel’s hands rested was sharp and sensitive. He didn’t slump against him, which might have been sweet, but instead busied his hands running unbidden over the muscles in Angel’s torso, an indulgence that was never allowed him as a fledge.

Two creatures who didn’t need to breathe could kiss for a good long time, and after a while Spike stopped moving his hands and just hung onto Angel’s shoulders as if for dear life. When he tipped his hips forward to rub his cock against Angel’s belly, Angel held him back and raised his eyebrows at him. “Tell me what you want.”

A snarl, uncalled for since the point of the game was for Angel to give him what he asked for, as long as he asked nicely. “To bloody well strangle you.”

“Try again.”

“Angelus,” Spike gritted out, in the voice that he used to tell minions he was perilously angry with them and they were about two seconds shy of the pointy end of a stick, “If you don’t put your big, ugly Irish hands on my arse, lift me up over your big, ugly Irish prick, and shove me down on it until I choke, I will ram my fist so far up you that I’ll be able to use you as a sock puppet.” His eyes were bright and wild and he looked at Angel with a challenge in them.

“Not exactly what I was looking for,” Angel hedged, but since Spike was starting to look either delirious or murderous, he decided to comply. Possibly he should get Fred on the phone, based on the level of aggression, but he suspected Spike might actually tear his head off if he took his hands away.

Spike made a gutted noise when he was seated, and for a moment rested with his forehead slumped against Angel’s shoulder. It had probably been a miscalculation to give into him so quickly; even the brief time separated had tightened him again, although not fully, and the deeper penetration this angle afforded him had Spike panting through the stretch, his expression something close to rapturous. “ _God_.”

“Just me,” Angel said, an old joke, a parody of the way Angelus would tell him, _I’m your God now, boy_.

“Go _fuck_ yourself, you miserable pikey knobheaded — ”

“Behave.” Angel cut him off by smacking his ass, but the impact tensed Spike almost unbearably around him, and Angel panted like a human into his throat. “ _Jesus_.”

Spike tried to say _just me_ — or at least that was what it sounded like — but it came out as a strangled groan. His hands were so tight on Angel’s upper arms that he was almost certainly leaving bruises. When his voice finally returned, it sounded slurred and indistinct. “If I could feel my bloody legs I’d make you sorry for that.”

“Move.”

If Spike heard him, he made no sign; his eyes were screwed closed, chin falling back. “Fuck, the _size_ of you. Feels like you’re at the back of my throat. Sodding hell, always did fill me up to bursting, you stupid lug.” His body leaned back just slightly, hips going sharper, collarbones protruding as the muscles in his legs flexed, shifting him barely up and down on Angel’s cock with a desperate sort of wobble. “If I kept leaning back, reckon it’d show up under my navel?”

Angel growled and resisted the urge to find out. “ _Move_.”

It was a mark of how turned on Spike was that he actually listened, increasing the height of his bounces and the force with which he slammed down. “Reckon this is why Darla turned you. Wanted to feel _something_ in that ruined snatch of hers without resorting to horses.”

“Spike, shut up.”

“It’s a compliment,” Spike told him breathlessly. “Your prick’s the only part of you I missed. Dru looked hard, she did, but she never did find a human who could quite match you for girth. An’ the candle was too smooth.”

That was, admittedly, gratifying to hear, although Angel somehow doubted he was really processing any information past the fact that Spike had missed being fucked by him. There was a white noise in his ears that was eclipsing anything that wasn’t a thought about how turned on he was, which was just buzzing louder as Spike ground down on him, obviously angling himself to drag the length of Angel’s cock against the spot inside him that was making him shiver like he was freezing up inside. “Tell me.”

“Like you bloody need me to tell you the size of your prick.” He could tell, in an instant, that this was the start of Spike being insufferable. He had never done very well with orders, even when he had been new: he would do what he would do, and if it happened to be what he knew you wanted, that was because he chose to indulge you or because you had outmaneuvered him. Sometimes, because you had beaten him bloody. None of these things had yet occurred this evening, and so he was being obstinate. “What do you want me to do, Angelus? Pretend I’ve never seen anything so great and big before?” His eyes went wide and fluttery, his voice coy. “Ooh, _Daddy_ , however do you fit it in your trousers? Are they tailored special? What happens when dear mama shrinks them in the wash?”

Angel looked him dead in the eye and smacked his ass again. Spike growled at him, but it was hard to find him intimidating when you were so deep inside him that you jarred little involuntary _ah_ sounds out of him every time you bottomed out. “Shut up.”

“Do you have to throw it over your shoulder in the shower to wash your balls?”

With a sigh, Angel took ahold of his hips and lifted him off of his length, tossing him up the bed when he started to resist. It was an undignified moment, mostly for Spike — Angel was the one sitting there with his cock red and shining with want, yes, thighs spread awkwardly to give him leverage into a body that was no longer there, but Spike had bounced and fallen on his back with his knees knocked wide apart and had to struggle upright, looking flushed and furious.

It wasn’t even really a surprise to Angel when the lean body hit him flying, knocking him back into the pillows. The scuffle that followed was brief and brutal: the advantage was Angel’s, mostly because Spike was more interested in climbing back onto his cock than he was in smashing his face into the mattress, but also because Spike hadn’t eaten in a while and he was clearly feeling the effects of the fever. On the other hand, Angel was actively trying not to hurt him, and Spike had no such scruples, judging by the fact that his eyes were glowing yellow.

He tried to care about the people on the floor below and what they might be thinking as the two of them tussled, but it was fun doing this again with someone, and besides, from what Spike had described earlier, he wasn’t in pain at the moment so much as he was missing the pleasure. It was apparently a good enough motivator either way, because Spike managed to tumble him off the side of the bed. He landed hard on his back, head snapping back against the floor, and then there was about a hundred and fifty pounds of fevered vampire on top of him and Spike was sinking his fangs into the side of his throat.

The fight ended with first blood, because Angel, on reflex, made a harsh noise at the sudden, needle-sharp pain, and slammed Spike over into the floor, shaking his teeth loose from his neck as his shoulder hit the edge of the bedside table on the way down. When he shoved his way back into Spike’s body, it arched off the floor under him, throat baring itself as if for a bite. Payback was a bitch, he figured, and took the opportunity, burying his teeth deep into the unnaturally hot vein lying just under the yielding skin.

There was no way that the scream Spike let out as he came _wasn’t_ heard in the offices below, which was an achievement Angelus would have been proud of, generally speaking. And this, this was what he had missed about fucking Spike. The lithe body thrashing under him, making it necessary to hold him down to ride him, the sounds of abandoned pleasure, the wild clawing passion. No one ever quite lost control under him the way Spike did, and the best part was that the aphrodisiac had nothing to do with it, this was just who Spike was, stripped down to his bare essentials, who he had always been when they had gone to bed together. For all he was the most annoying person in the world, Spike was _fun_ to have sex with, in no small part because he loved it the way Carnyss demons loved to pump iron.

When Angel let go of his throat, Spike collapsed panting under him and took the next thrusts purring with satisfaction, chin lifting to lick at the side of Angel’s neck, over the holes his fangs had made, sucking just enough to draw blood and then latching on again once he had tasted it. Ready for the bite this time, Angel just tipped his head to the side to give him space and let him feed like a fledgling as he rutted into him. He’d eaten, after all. He could spare it, and Spike was hardening under him again at the provocation, making sweet eager sounds into the wound.

There had always been a particular stage for Spike just past orgasm where he went soft and languid, pliable like a doll, and from long practice Angel knew just how to keep him there, slowing his thrusts and angling himself so that Spike would really _feel_ the drag of his prick inside him. The fangs came out of his neck with a wet gasp on a particularly deep push and Spike twisted his body, sinuous and slow, and breathed against the bloodied bite mark, still licking at it, making it sting every time his tongue made contact. He was producing quiet little humming moans, bending so fluidly Angel had to check again to make sure he wasn’t actually melting.

“Tell me now,” he murmured in Spike’s ear, and Spike wriggled against him and whispered back,

“Fuck me harder.”

That wasn’t what he had meant, but Angel did, until Spike was making devastating keening noises against his throat and writhing under him like an incubus. On occasional thrusts he could feel the hard, wet head of Spike’s cock bumping up against his belly, leaking like he hadn’t just come. When he reached between them to take ahold of it, Spike groaned and spread his legs impossibly wider, knees inching up to open himself further.

Then he started talking again, voice husky and half-broken. “Don’t know how you don’t _love_ this.”

“Because you do.”

“ _So_ bloody good.” And the tone of the proclamation left no doubt that he was telling the truth, if the pool of semen on his belly would have allowed any in the first place. “Feels like you’re pulling my guts out.”

Angel blinked at him. That was, in fact, the exact sensation that he wasn’t terribly fond of, and, as was Spike’s wont, he’d described it in the absolute worst way possible. He took his hand away from Spike’s dick, which twitched and dripped against his flat stomach.

“In a good way,” Spike added, and dragged his tongue, sandpaper-rough, up the side of Angel’s neck. “Suppose I should thank you, really, for showing me.”

“That wasn’t why — ”

“Know it wasn’t. You were just putting me in my place. And you’re _so-oo-oo_ sorry now that you have a soul. _Fuck me_ , you nancy sod.”

Angel bent his head to bite him again in punishment, and Spike jerked around him and the sound he made was almost a sob. “I’m _not_ sorry,” he said, when he drew his fangs back. “I know you loved it.” He’d gotten the shocked Victorian eyes when he had told Will to strip that first time, but after the shock had faded, he’d taken the rough fucking Angelus had given him like he was being paid to scream and cry and plead for more. “Since you spent the next twenty years bending over every flat surface you could find for me.”

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” Spike said, feelingly, instead of the protest Angel knew he wanted to make at that characterization, which, admittedly, was loose at best. Will, unlike Dru, never _asked_ to be fucked unless Angelus had made him, because it hurt his pride to do so. That made today a first, in an odd way. “ _Angel_.” His throat was bared and smeared with crimson. “So bloody deep. Let me — let me — ”

And then he was pushing at Angel’s shoulders like he was trying to get him off, but when Angel tried to withdraw, he produced a genuinely feral-sounding growl and locked his legs around Angel’s ribcage.

“If you _stop_ I’ll chew your head off with my own _fucking_ teeth,” Spike said hoarsely, and finally Angel got the point and grabbed him by the hips to pull him upright again and lie back himself, let Spike get on his knees to ride him into the floor. When he was seated again, legs spread wide around Angel’s hips, his head rolled back, collarbones in sharp relief, and he made a huffing sound like the air had been driven out of his lungs, inching down as far as gravity would let him go. “Ah, _yeah_. Yeah, that’s it.”

Angel put his hands on the slim thighs to feel the wiry muscle pumping under the smooth skin as Spike started to rise and fall on his length, and leveraged himself against the floor to punctuate Spike’s sitting down by fucking forward, just at the end, to drive himself into him just that little bit harder. It was a good view, Spike seated on him, pale thighs parted as if to show off his desperate arousal and the place where they were joined, body sharp and pretty in the fading outside light that filtered through the windows.

“’m so bloody full,” he murmured, ecstasy written all over the straining curves of his body, and that was all Angel had really wanted him to say, not the ridiculous other junk that he’d been spouting off about guts and showers and fucking tailoring.

He licked the wound on Spike’s neck to punctuate his annoyance. “Was that so hard?”

“ _You_ are,” Spike told him breathlessly, and laughed at his own joke. It _was_ really a shame Angelus had never liked to take him in this position, because he was annoyingly good-looking bouncing on a cock, flushed to the cheeks, nearly cross-eyed with pleasure. Not to mention he got deeper this way, not to mention that apparently, Spike being in control of the pace meant he alternated between stretches of slow, languorous rolls of his hips that dragged Angel achingly through his tightness and bursts of frenzied grinding that gripped his length almost to the point of brilliant, beautiful pain.

“Tell me again.”

“Fill me up so bloody good, you narcissistic, self-involved, bog-trotting — ”

“I’m going to gag you if you keep that up,” Angel told him, mostly to watch the interestingly aroused reaction that Spike had been giving him to insults of this caliber. Sure enough, it got him a shiver and a tight, hot grip on his cock when Spike screwed himself down on it as if he didn’t quite believe he had him to the root.

“I’d like to see you _try_ ,” Spike challenged, apparently trying to save face and pretend that he wasn’t clearly turned on by the idea.

It wasn’t good to make a threat you wouldn’t follow through on, not with children and not with Spike, who was very much like a child in that way. So he stuck two fingers into the open pink mouth, and watched as the blue eyes went yellow and deadly. “Ah-ah-ah,” he warned. “Bite down and I’m going to leave you to sweat.”

Spike’s expression was clearly saying _You wouldn’t_.

Angel raised an eyebrow back at him. _Try me_.

The sudden hot suction on his fingers told him Spike wasn’t sure enough of his guess to find out. He still had that look in his eyes that meant he was searching for a way to be insubordinate, but Angel doubted he’d find one without climbing off his cock, which he seemed disinclined to do.

“There, that’s better,” Angel told him, feeling unaccountably smug. “I knew I could shut you up if I could find enough things to stuff you with.” Spike was riding him with vigor, now, glaring through eyes that were all pupil, cheeks hollowed and body beginning to quake. Angel dropped a hand onto his ass, half to feel the muscle flexing, half to feather his fingers lightly across the thin-stretched skin of Spike’s rim, feeling the friction of his motion, the way his body had to bend to accommodate. “You want another finger?” The eyes went wide, almost scared, almost longing, and Angel put a third one in his mouth and watched him relax abruptly, rhythm faltering for a moment. “Good boy.”

Angel would call the noise Spike made at that a whimper. Spike, because he had more pride than he really deserved — this was, after all, the man who had once shoved a candle up his ass because his girlfriend had asked nicely — would probably try to find something manlier to call it, but Angel wasn’t a poet, and he was coming up short on vocabulary words to describe this other than “unfortunately arousing.”

Spike licked between his fingers — which would feel disgusting if he wasn’t hard as granite, he thought — and planted his hands on the rise of Angel’s stomach to leverage himself, eyes lidding shut and palms twitching like he was a cat trying to extend his claws. He was making muffled sounds around Angel’s hand — being gagged made most people louder, but Spike was already so loud there wasn’t much of anywhere to go — and working himself at a pace that was approaching frantic.

Nobody could move like a vampire could move. Smooth, strong muscle tension, tight around him, motion too quick and hard for a human to sustain without their legs giving out. And Spike had been taught well, although Angel was fairly sure someone else had taught him to ride. He didn’t exactly feel jealous about that, but he kind of wished he’d gotten to watch. Spike looked very much like a young god like this, slim and powerful and flawless, or some representation of lust, desperate and vulnerable and flushed with arousal.

All right, god damn it, he didn’t exactly feel put-upon that Spike had chosen him. Not entirely, anyway. He’d held out long enough, and his climax hit him so violently it made him dizzy. His fingers felt numb when he reached for Spike’s cock, hot and eager in his hand, and his other hand slipped free of Spike’s lips, which were swollen with use.

Whatever sound Spike made when he came wasn’t words in any language Angel knew, but he’d lay odds that it meant _something_ , because it also didn’t quite sound like nonsense. Spike had once made a habit of learning how to threaten in demon languages, and the way this had been going, it was entirely possible he’d promised Angel some sort of gruesome demise.

Spike slumped down on him, muscles losing tension again. Back in that lax, dreamy post-orgasmic state. If Angel picked him up now, he’d almost ooze out of his arms; he knew that from experience. Suddenly, he became aware that they were lying on the floor next to the bed, and the bruises from the fight were beginning to blossom. “What language was that?”

Nothing for a moment. Then Spike mumbled, “Wasn’t paying attention. Was thinking how much I bloody hate you, so probably something like that.”

“You don’t hate all of me.”

“Prick’s a bit of all right.”

“ _All right_?” Mockery was more Spike’s style, but for a moment he desperately wanted to be able to affect an English accent and moan _ooh, fuck me, Angel_. Something about Spike made him turn into a teenager. “You were just screaming about how good it was.”

Spike wrinkled his nose. “Wasn’t _screaming_.”

“Fine, I’ll record you next time.”

“You’re going to have to pay me more if you want to make porn of me, mate.”

“I’m not paying you for this.”

“What, no PTO in this hellhole? Sick leave?”

“You’re a vampire. You don’t get sick. No sick leave.”

“Are _you_ getting paid?”

“ _I’m_ saving lives.”

“I’m not alive.”

“So why am I paying you at all?”

“Because I fight more evil than you.”

“You _are_ more evil than me.”

“Historically, for you, evil’s sexually transmitted.”

Angel rolled his eyes. “That was one time.”

“Once’s enough. Now all of LA and half the demon world at large thinks you’ve had your todger whacked off. Warms my heart to hear them talking about whether you’ve got a nub down there or whether it’s all smooth.”

“With the way you were screaming, I think all of LA may have changed their minds.”

“I was not screaming.”

“If that’s what helps you sleep at night.”

Spike glared at him, the effect of which was somewhat muted by the fact that his hair had dried white and fluffy and his cheek was squished against Angel’s shoulder. Learning how to look menacing had been a real struggle for him, as Angel recalled. “I sleep during the day, lughead.”

He hated to let Spike get the last word, but a dignified silence was better than a shoddy retort, and Spike’s hadn’t exactly been top-quality, which meant silence was winning. When Spike tried to talk again, Angel grabbed him by the back of the head and muffled his words against his shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i don't hate this chapter but i also don't think it's very hot. contains: intercrural sex, face-fucking, masturbation, angel missing a hockey game 
> 
> anyway i think i can wrap up the rest of the kink requests i have outstanding in the next chapter so unless someone wants to add some, it's probably 4 chapters? we'll see though because they do keep snarking at each other

It was nice, in some ways, having Spike draped over his chest, but then again, the floor beneath them was hard and Spike wasn’t _quite_ as pleasant to hold like this as he had been when he had been new. It had been something of a habit of theirs when Darla was away to sleep three to the bed, more if they had brought someone home, and to curl up together. Like kittens, Darla had said once, with a smile on her face as if she found it sweet, but she hated to be held at night, and she would have rather staked herself than let Will climb into her bed. It wasn’t that she disliked him especially, just that she liked to have her own space, and Angelus didn’t count since it was his bed too and Dru didn’t count because she really couldn’t understand why she wasn’t allowed to touch it.

Spike wasn’t very kittenish anymore. It was probably because he was hurting, or maybe because he just wasn’t as biddable as he had once been, but his body just wasn’t as loose and docile in the afterglow as it had always been. It was more like having a snake curled up on your chest these days — it had soft skin and it looked pretty in some lights, but if provoked, it would bite.

“I need to shower,” Angel told him.

“It’s not like I’m not going to shag you again afterwards,” Spike mumbled.

“And in the meantime, I’d rather not flake.” Angel elbowed him, and he dismounted and rolled off, lying indolently on his back on the floor and watching with amusement as Angel pulled himself upright with effort.

When he returned, cleaner, Spike slipped past him in the doorway and the shower turned on again. In LA it was almost a criminal waste of water, but given the fact that they had both committed infinitely worse crimes, what was the point in harping on this one? He went back to bed.

Eventually, Angel finished his book, and went looking for something else to do, making another mug of blood when he passed the kitchen even though he wasn’t exactly hungry and downing it while he turned on the TV and saw that there was pre-game commentary running. Judging by the sky outside, it was starting to get on towards evening, which meant that Spike had better be prepared to suffer, because Angel was not missing the Kings game for this.

When he checked the clock, it had been nearly an hour and a half, and the shower was still running. “An ice bath would probably lower the water bill,” he called.

“Fuck off, you have more money than God,” Spike yelled back at him.

The shower turned off sometime around the two-hour mark, and Spike didn’t emerge from the bedroom for a few more minutes. He finally came out naked and shivering, although vampires weren’t really supposed to feel the cold much. Spike, incongruously, had always liked to be warm, and on top of the fever chills he’d been punishing himself intentionally with freezing water, so he was bound to be unhappy. Uncharacteristically, he was quiet as he padded over to the couch and dropped into the spot beside Angel, whose cock was dormant at the moment but was now becoming mildly convinced it was about to be needed again. The thing of it was that, naked and with his hair curling as it dried, Spike looked a whole lot less like the annoying asshole who haunted Angel’s office during his off hours and a whole lot more like the young man he had been when he’d first tripped across Angelus’ path. _Fond_ wasn’t really the word for how Angel had felt about him then, but he could hardly deny that he’d found him beautiful.

The hockey game started. Spike rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything, although Angel saw him looking for the remote, which he had preemptively hidden in anticipation of Spike trying to steal it. Over the course of the game, which Spike wasn’t watching, he began to fidget — predictable — and then slide gradually down Angel’s side, like he was melting.

At that thought Angel gave him a second glance, just in case, but he wasn’t _actually_ melting. It looked more like he was trying to inch his way into the position he had frequently assumed with Dru, where she would pet his hair and coo absently at him. The idea was a little bit tempting, although he flatly refused to coo in any fashion, but he thought it was better not to encourage Spike to act like a big cat, because if you gave him an inch he’d be getting himself trapped in cabinets in the middle of the night and coughing up hairballs.

Games lasted two and a half to three hours, and beside him as it went on, Spike was squirming and sweating and radiating heat, but he still hadn’t said anything, and other than leaning against Angel’s side in a way that was somehow both clingy and standoffish, he hadn’t made a move. “Football’s better,” he muttered, and Angel cuffed him on the back of the head. “Do they even televise the bits where they beat the living shit out of each other? Because if not, just watch rugby, mate.”

“If you’re not going to watch, you can make yourself useful,” Angel suggested.

Spike blinked up at him and then slid to his knees.

Angel realized he probably should have seen that coming. _Make yourself useful_ , back in the days when they had first met, either meant _open your mouth_ or _bend over that table_. Sometimes it meant _distract Dru while I take Darla out_ , but mostly it was sexual. “I meant something like picking up your clothes or cleaning the bedroom.”

“I’m not doing your chores.”

“It’s the least you could do.”

“Please, Granda, you haven’t had it this good in _years_. My arse could turn a friar queer. And I don’t just mean you in a cassock.” A shrug. “But all right, you don’t want it. I can live with that.”

Pretty rich coming from a man whose knees wobbled when he stood up and traipsed to the kitchen, the muscles in his back obviously pulled so tight with stress that they were straining at his skin. Angel could hear him opening the fridge and then the plasticky snap of a container of blood giving up its top. No microwave noises — just the sounds of Spike drinking, probably straight from the container like this was his house. He could wonder who had taught the boy manners, but the fact was that he’d come with manners and then Angelus had painstakingly beat them out of him.

The Kings scored. Spike didn’t come back from the kitchen, but there wasn’t any sound of him sitting down or falling over or jerking off, which seemed like the most obvious possibilities. He tried to tell himself that Spike was an adult and he wasn’t concerned, but in reality he’d never been much of an adult and he’d always been too stubborn for his own good, so Angel waited until a commercial break to poke his head in, to preserve both of their dignities. Spike was standing against the counter, holding himself upright through what looked like sheer force of will. He had to wonder exactly how painful it _was_ , because he’d once watched Spike take a lash from a bullwhip without even changing his facial expression, although he was relatively sure that was because he had been dissociating himself from the sensation at the time.

“Think you can finish before the break ends?” he asked. Something like _do you want help_ or _let me help you_ would probably earn him some smart-ass response and a prideful refusal, at least until Spike’s pride broke, which would probably be soon, since it wasn’t all that sturdy to begin with.

Spike looked at him, again, as if he was an idiot. The container of blood was empty on the counter behind him, which was — a little odd, that he was taking in that much without being injured, but maybe the pain had knocked his hunger cues askew.

“Why is it that you never shut up when I _want_ you to?” Angel asked him, and then turned on his heel and walked back out of the kitchen.

Spike hit him from behind before he made it to the couch, which was about what he’d expected. He was a little surprised to have even made it out of the door, actually; based on Spike’s state of mind when they’d first come up here, he suspected that he was probably running on a little more primal instinct than usual, which meant that he would respond with pursuit when shown signs of flight. He turned to react, only to feel Spike’s body shift with him and then a hand on the back of his neck like lightning, a foot hooked around his ankle to yank him forward.

The little bastard had learned a few new tricks over the years, but that wasn’t one of them. Instead of falling to the ground, Angel caught himself on the back of the couch, which was exactly what Spike had probably expected to happen, considering that he’d been on the receiving end of that exact move several times when Angelus hadn’t felt like winning a dominance struggle before a fuck.

God damn it. Because he wasn’t in the habit of having sex — he could count on one hand the times since Buffy — he also wasn’t in the habit of storing lube anywhere but the bedside table, which meant that Spike was bending him over to take him dry. Right when he was about to go ahead and engage to back him off until he could get to the bedroom, Spike’s body plastered itself to his back, slick with sweat and hotter than a human, a rise in temperature that had to be more than 20 degrees over his normal. The fact that he was dead was probably the only thing keeping him from being completely delirious: that their brain matter worked at all was probably mystical and not beholden to biology.

The rough voice in his ear: “Ankles crossed, and squeeze your thighs together.”

So that was how he was going to play it. Well, better than being fucked dry. Angel obeyed.

“See,” said Spike, and grabbed him by the back of the hair briefly, “This way you can still watch your bloody game.”

Considerate. He’d been fucked before, by Darla with a toy mostly, when she wanted to put him in his place, which was incredibly rare. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been fucked _this way_. And really, it wasn’t at all like actually getting fucked, even though it maybe looked the same from fifteen feet away. There was no stinging initial discomfort, for one, and none of that strange indescribable feeling that was his body accommodating something inside it that wasn’t meant to be there. Spike’s cheek was nestled against his shoulderblades, his body stretched out over him, the muscles in his stomach — pressed against Angel’s ass — tightening and releasing over and over again as he moved against him, his cock seeming bigger than Angel knew it was as it slid through the tight divide between his thighs. Dry and it would probably chafe, but that would fade in just hours.

Demons generally followed a fairly rigid hierarchical structure of dominance, and this firmly bucked it, which made it feel a little unnatural. Then again, neither of them had never been very respectful of that structure. And it felt kind of new and interesting, having that power behind him. Darla had only briefly been physically stronger than he was, and he doubted Spike was either, pound for pound, but he was at least closer. He probably couldn’t come like this — Spike wasn’t quite tall enough to rub against him consistently in this position — but it was good, feeling him rutting desperately into the space Angel had made for him. Breathing hard, making soft little gasping noises, quivering with exertion that should barely trouble him. Muscles tightly coiled, fingers bruising his hips, mouth hot against his back.

He found himself almost wishing Spike would bite him again — it was what you did in this position, it was an expression of why you got into this position in the first place — but didn’t suggest it, just flexed his thighs to hear the resulting moan from behind him. “Christ, do that again. Knew those muscles had to be good for something.”

“Kicking demons,” Angel suggested, and did it again.

“Can do that myself. Besides, this’s a better view.” He didn’t have to see the leer on Spike’s face to know it was there, you could hear it in his half-shattered voice. “You really do have a fantastic arse, sire. Suppose that’s the advantage of packing on a stone or so.”

Angel rolled his eyes. “That one was just lazy.”

Spike’s hands slipped under him, stroking down his belly towards his cock and completely ripping his attention from the game. Angel wasn’t under any illusions that he hadn’t bulked up since he’d first come to Sunnydale, but it mostly wasn’t fat and they both knew it. This was the physique he’d always tended towards when he was eating enough, heavily muscle-bound without much attention to definition. His stomach swelled in the area where Spike’s hand was skating over it, but it was hard and strong.

And what was more, he knew that Spike only poked fun at him over it because he knew aesthetic vanity was a sore spot. He’d never done it as a fledgling, when Angelus had looked much the same as he did now; in fact he’d always been almost childishly fascinated at the differences between their bodies, eager to touch and therefore rarely allowed to.

The reply took a long time to come, like Spike wasn’t exactly paying attention to him. “Can you blame me? I’m doing all the bloody work otherwise.”

Instead of retorting to that, Angel flexed his thighs until Spike was more humping against his ass than driving between his legs, because he had the muscle to make it difficult for Spike to escape him. It would have hurt someone else — hell, it probably hurt Spike — but vampires liked it that way, in Angel’s experience, and Spike definitely did. Besides, the slick from the head of Spike’s cock eased the way, now, not quite enough to make it a glide, but enough that it didn’t hurt. Didn’t hurt him, at least; Spike was panting and sighing and shuddering when their bodies impacted each other. Finally, with a curse, he came against Angel’s cock and down his legs, spend hotter than it should be for having been trapped in his body as it boiled, then sagged almost helplessly against his back, without his hands ever having quite made it to stroking him off.

There was silence for a little while. Then, “I could suck you off,” Spike offered raggedly, apparently as his hand finally reached his target and he noticed Angel hadn’t come. He’d gotten hard — the sensation of Spike thrusting against him, the scent of his arousal made that a sure thing — but not desperately.

Someone had scored, because he heard cheering. “Do it,” he said, not even trying to pretend he knew which team it had been.

Spike went to his knees behind him with a careless sort of thump that made Angel think that maybe his legs had just given out, and then he was wriggling himself around into the space between Angel’s body and the couch, movements as close to clumsy as Spike ever got without being belligerently drunk. He looked unaccountably gawky, legs folded haphazardly like a newborn fawn’s, and he didn’t say anything, didn’t bother with any sort of preparation or warning, just took him by the root with one hand and then sucked him down.

He’d always been an exceptional cocksucker, even before he’d learned how to do it right. Oh, he wasn’t any good _technically_ at first, and he’d been embarrassed and angry and thought of it as being debased, so he hadn’t precisely been eager enough to make up for his lack of skill. But he didn’t have to breathe, and he had very little in the way of appreciable gag reflex, and the sounds he made around his mouthful and the crystal welling of tears in his bright eyes when you fucked his face were captivating enough to make it worth it. After he’d learned a thing or two from Dru and gotten over his shame — the former of which had been an ongoing project for years and the latter of which had taken less than a month — oh, then Angelus had hardly been able to stop himself from putting him on his knees every time he saw him. After a while, too, lack of shame had turned into pride, and then he was treated to the semi-frequent sight of Will teasing his teeth with his tongue while looking straight at him across a room full of people, and the very-frequent sight of him slithering to the floor and panting enticingly after his cock whenever he wanted to get away with something.

By the time they’d parted ways he’d been lethal with that mouth in more ways than one. Even Darla had taken been enamored of it, although she’d always acted like _she_ was doing _him_ a favor by letting him crawl between her knees. Angelus had been less reserved about enjoying it, because he _liked_ it when Will tried to manipulate him with sexual favors. And besides, he really _was_ good: perfect pressure, perfect suction, just the right amount of teeth (a little fang just for Angelus), and that pretty face looking up at him with glazed eyes and a sweet mouth stretched and swollen around him.

Spike didn’t appear to be able to apply any sort of finesse at the moment, and actually, if anything, he’d gotten worse at it over the years — he was probably out of practice — but getting somewhat worse than spectacular didn’t make it _bad_. He could still take Angel all the way in, which was no mean feat, and without even looking like it strained him. And his mouth was hot now, hotter than anything he’d had wrapped around his cock since — well, since Eve, but before then since Buffy. And even without finesse there was that appeal that had been there before he’d ever learned any. He still had those big blue eyes that made you want to ruin him.

Angel kept one of his hands propping him up on the couch back, and moved the other to the curve of Spike’s skull, feeling the damp hair at the nape of his neck as he held him in place. He didn’t end up needing to ask for permission; Spike looked up at him with eyes that cleared momentarily and then let his hand fall, his jaw slacken.

He didn’t choke when Angel pushed his way down his throat. He hadn’t for a good long time, and even then it had been more psychological than anything. He didn’t choke when he pulled out either, just sucked like he was trying to take him back down, and held his mouth open, tongue outstretched for a moment when Angel pulled out entirely, just to see what he’d do.

Roll his eyes, apparently, and duck his head to lap his own spend away from the inside of Angel’s thighs until Angel hauled him up to shove back into that welcoming mouth. The bright eyes slipped closed, and Spike, caged against the back of the couch, wrapped his fingers around the backs of his knees, not pulling, just steadying himself under the thrusts, letting Angel use him for the tight hot clench of his throat.

The score was tied and he wasn’t quite sure when that had happened. He was moving steadily now, thrusting into the heat in a rhythm that made it easy for Spike to take him. Spike’s eyes were still shut as if he had fallen asleep, but his brows were twitching with concentration, and his fingers were restless, almost ticklish, on his legs. Dru, he remembered somewhat fondly, had tended to sing while she worked. Spike was barely humming, as if he had picked up the habit from her somewhere over the years, and the vibrations around him were sweet and obviously unintentional, because every time he hit the back of Spike’s throat, they stopped; if he had been trying to make Angel feel it he would have been sure to keep going, even as it got more difficult.

When he felt his balls tightening he used his grip on the back of Spike’s head to press him all the way down until his nose snubbed up into the curls at the base of his cock. The muscles of his throat rippled around Angel as he started to swallow, which was just enough to send him over, Spike crowded deep against him, jaw open and accepting. Then he stayed there, unbreathing, eyes coming open and looking up at him until Angel tugged him backwards until his mouth slipped free.

“If I didn’t have this soul I’d take every minute of this game I missed out of your hide,” he said, and Spike grinned, looking tired as Angel stepped back from him.

“Reck — ” His voice came out raspy, and he cleared his throat, nose twitching. It was, sadly, adorable. “ — reckon I could get off on that if you did it with your hands.”

“You should be so lucky.”

“Besides, just record it. Then you can jog back and catch what you missed.”

Rather than admit that he didn’t know how to do that on this TV, Angel collapsed onto the couch. “It’s not the same.”

Spike had apparently decided to lay where he had fallen, because he didn’t appear from around the other side of the couch, and faintly, through the back, Angel felt the bump of him moving against it. “You just don’t know how.”

“Shut up, Spike.”

The peanut gallery fell silent, and then there was the sound of flesh on flesh.

“Already?” He couldn’t be desperate this soon, unless it had abruptly gotten worse — there had been no real signs of that, except that Spike seemed to be tiring, which was no wonder.

“It’s your fault for teaching me to get hard while you’re using my mouth, sire. Anyway, maybe it’ll help.”

Angel snorted. “There’s no way you came to me without trying that first.”

Silence again, except for the slow, rhythmic noise of Spike stroking himself, probably lying on his back on the floor with his knees spread and his head tossed back. The first time Angelus had caught him at it he’d been hiding in a room with a closed door, hunched over himself. Force of habit, probably, but the habit had died easily. Positive reinforcement had been simple: lean over his back, watch him fist himself, whispering what a pretty slut he made into his ear until he was gasping for breath he didn’t need.

He was breathing now, hitching choked-off-breaths, and was he just going slow so he could draw out Angel hearing him, to make him imagine how pink the head of his cock would be squeezed between his fingers? The pearly bead of fluid that would gather at the tip — the way his hips would tilt just so, creating that little gap between the small of his back and floor —

God damn it, Spike had him, the irritating little son of a bitch.

What was the score again?

“I’m adding two more minutes,” he told Spike. Spike moaned back at him, gratuitously wanton. There was a plea swimming in that voice, like Spike was begging him to come over the back of the couch, or at least look, but it was also obviously a performance. “Three just for that.”

Spike snickered, apparently unable to hold the game. “You’re all prick, no stick. I reckon you don’t even recall how to fold the belt.”

“For you, unfolded, buckle out.”

Spike’s laugh sounded distinctly strained, but it was the other noises that were captivating. The slick sound of his hand sliding up and down. The little skid of his heel against the floor when he shifted. Tiny, barely-audible noises of bone tapping bone as he rolled his shoulders and his collarbones danced. Breathing again, but guttered, like he was biting at his bottom lip, like the air was only just making its way out around his teeth. Then the soft _stchh_ of nails running through hair, and he could picture it just perfectly, Spike spread out on the floor with one hand around his cock and the other fisted in his bright hair, because even when he was alone he had to have someone to hold him down.

The sounds of climax were unmistakable, the sharp movement as Spike’s body tensed, probably pulling tight like a bow, probably twisting nearly off the floor; the high desperate whine that usually accompanied an unsatisfying ending; the soft little sigh as his body went limp and relaxed again onto the floor.

The Kings were ahead. Angel couldn’t have named the score if you had paid him.

Infuriatingly, the next noise was the slide of Spike’s tongue on his own skin, and if he was licking his own hand clean, Angel wasn’t sure whether he wanted to count that as ten full minutes out of spite or whether he wanted to climb over the back of the couch and do something extremely injudicious, considering how he should probably be reserving himself for when Spike was actually in need.

“Are you done?” he asked finally, when the sounds of Spike’s ragged breathing had stopped again.

“I don’t reckon I’m knocked up with any spawn, but if you haven’t had your monthlies — ”

“Forget I asked.”

“Feel fine. Was something awful in the kitchen. Felt like my muscles were crushing me in. But as soon as I was up against your back it eased off. Got much better when we went at it like Greeks. Have to admit, the suckjob didn’t do much for me other than get me horny, but that’s all right. I like to feel a bit of genuine desire now and again.”

Angel ducked his head over the back of the couch just to check, and sure enough, Spike was laying there on his back, one leg propped up on the floor and the other splayed out. If his hair were longer and darker and his chest were smeared with blood, he’d look just how he did after any hunt, fed and content but still begging to be touched. He settled back down to stare at the TV, although he suspected that his glassy eyes might have given away that he wasn’t particularly focused. “You’re rusty.”

“I’m sorry, your highness, I didn’t catch that one.”

“You’re rusty. How long has it been since you used your mouth like that?”

Spike looked genuinely offended. “I give head nearly every time I have sex!”

“For a man?”

“Not so often." A baleful glare. "‘s not your right to be possessive of my mouth, either.”

“Just curious.” But he wasn’t, really. Not curious, not possessive, none of it, although he had the idea Spike liked that he might be jealous, because he always had liked to be possessed, even just nominally. How many times, after all, had Angelus watched him shiver when Drusilla crooned _my sweet prince_ into his ear? Bold and brash and an enormous pain in the ass, but he liked to belong. Which, really, Angel couldn’t give him. Because fucking Spike until he couldn’t walk couldn’t be a habit, not he would exactly mind a sober do-over or two. There were other plans in the works that didn’t involve Spike’s frankly tempting shape in his bed. Or, uh, lying on the floor behind his couch. “Are you just going to stay there?”

“If I see another bloke in shoulderpads and a cup I’ll die of boredom. Your ceiling’s more interesting.”

No, it wasn’t. Spike was just trying to bait him. “You can walk, right?”

“Of course I can bloody well walk. I’m a master vampire, Peaches. Not some wide-eyed little fledge who’ll melt into a boneless heap just because you go at him a couple of times with your prick.”

“You were cuter when you pretended to be helpless after sex.”

A little growl, probably objecting to being called cute. But he really had been, and even Angelus had thought so, although his opinions on the matter had tended more towards thinking of ways to destroy that than they had towards appreciation.

“That’s fifteen more minutes, by the way.”

“Don’t blame me because _you’re_ not paying attention. ‘m just lying here. Besides, that was never fifteen minutes.”

“Sixteen.”

“Ooh, I’m _so_ scared. The great Angelus is going to spank me. Whatever shall I do?”

“Seventeen.”

“Threaten someone who’s scared.”

“I can keep counting.”

“I’m so proud of you for learning your numbers, love.”

Spike would probably run out of witty comebacks soon.

Probably.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> y'all really do love your spangel porn. me too guys me too.
> 
> got a bunch more requests so this will be more chapters. feel free to keep adding i guess, it's not like this has even a vague semblance of a plot. my list of things i'm planning to work in currently is as follows, in no particular order: spike tied up, sex from behind, biting him to keep him still, impromptu toy usage, will/angelus rp, humiliation
> 
> in this one: (consensual, semi-pre-negotiated) somnophilia (ladyjanee), spike's perspective (maggielafey)

“Stop smoking in here.”

“A post-coital cigarette is one of the finest habits of man. Here, have one.”

Angel took a drag on the cigarette. They were on the bedroom floor again, this time because they hadn’t made it to the bed from the living room before Spike had gotten so handsy that neither of them could focus on walking. At least he hadn’t been tackled, for once. He was pretty sure he’d never been pushed to the floor so many times in succession in a non-fight context, although to be fair, tonight had been about forty percent fight. It was probably about two in the morning, and Spike showed no signs of slowing, which would be fine, except Angel wasn’t keeping vampire hours much anymore, and had gotten up at eight to go to work. Also, they had been fucking on and off for twelve straight hours, which would take it out of anyone. “Mm.”

Thin fingers nicked the smoke back. “Told you.”

“Remember Andalusia in ’92?”

“You looked like an utter pansy with a cigar dangling off your lip. Almost worse than that hideous moustache.”

“If you could grow facial hair you would have tried some stupid things with it too over the years.”

“Bloody convenient to only have to shave once a fortnight, if you ask me.”

“I’d have to.”

Spike elbowed him in the stomach. They were lying shoulder to hip where they had rolled away after sucking each other off. “To tell you the truth, as much as I’ve missed getting a leg over, I’d love a kip. Usually I don’t get off nine times without sleeping between any of ‘em.”

“Nine?”

“I _did_ try wanking off before I came to you. Reckon you’ll be getting a sexual harassment complaint from some weedy bloke who happened to be at the urinals at the wrong time.”

“And it doesn’t — ”

“Not so’s you’d notice.”

Angel stared at the ceiling for a moment. “You didn’t last three hours that last time.”

A little silence. “Don’t think it’s getting better. Think I’m hotter, too. Or, anyway, everything feels colder.”

“I’m going to have to sleep sometime, you know.”

“So long’s I can hump your leg while you do, I think we’ll be fine.”

Angel shrugged. Spike blew a smoke ring. “You’re lowering the rental value of this place.”

“Sounds like I’m doing the occupant a solid. Here, grumpy, have another drag.”

He did. The smoke was warm in his lungs and Spike’s thigh was warm against his cheek. Nicotine didn’t _exactly_ do for vampires what it did for people, which was probably why Spike smoked like a chimney instead of like a normal person, but for a few moments there was a relaxing effect.

They lay there in silence for a while, passing cigarettes back and forth. Angel looked over Spike’s body, cataloguing the bruises and bitemarks, getting stuck for a moment on the plane of his stomach where it sloped into his hips, on the half-hard, spit-sticky bulge of his cock lying against his thigh. “I’ll trade you,” he offered. “You can do whatever you want while I’m asleep if you’ll be Will for me later.”

Spike rolled his eyes. Angel couldn’t exactly _see_ it, but he could _hear_ it. Figuratively, anyway, in the air. “ _After_ I’m not riding the one-way train to Fucksville any longer,” he countered. “Bones hurt too much to pretend to like you at the moment.”

“Fine.”

“Ponce.”

“Have you ever heard the expression ‘don’t bite the hand that feeds you,’ Spike?”

“Neck, prick — no, I’ve taken account and I haven’t bitten your hand. Also, you should feed me more. ‘m bloody hungry.”

Angel raised his head to squint at him. “You just ate two days’ worth of blood.”

“Still hungry.”

“We should call Fred. You’ve been acting strange for hours.”

“Yeah, I think it’s the cycles of the moon,” Spike said with a tone of utmost mystery, waving his hand across the ceiling and looking for a moment very much like Dru. “Idiot. Of course I’m acting strange. Usually I don’t run into your office asking if your prick’s free for the next twenty-four hours.”

“I’m serious. You did _bite_ me a while back, and you’ve been pretty — ”

“It’s two in the bleeding morning, don’t call her,” Spike said shortly. As much as Fred had taken an immediate shine to him, he’d returned the favor, although as far as everyone in the world at large was concerned, Fred granting her friendship was a considerably greater boon than Spike granting his. Angel suspected she reminded him a little of Dawn: lanky with long dark hair and a bright smile. “ — text her and make sure she’s not losing sleep over this. You can call her in the morning.”

“Text her?”

Spike gave him a pitying look. “You don’t have two brain cells in that thick head to rub together, do you, mate?” He reached up, and then propped himself up on his elbow to reach Angel’s phone on the bedside table. It fell when he groped at it and hit the floor next to his head. For a moment he tapped at it, then he flipped it back shut and tossed it up in the general direction of the bed. “There.”

The phone immediately buzzed.

“Girl’s still awake,” Spike grumbled, and dragged himself off the floor, stubbing his cigarette out against a coaster that was sitting on the bedside table. He was clearly going for the phone, crawling up onto the bed. Angel sat up after him and swiped it out of his hands when he was within reach.

The screen read:

_> You’d better be asleep_

_> >Spike?_

It was a good guess, but then again, Angel had never texted anyone and Fred was a genius, so it wasn’t exactly surprising. He put the phone back on the bedside table without answering and crawled into the sheets. They were going to have to be changed. He’d like to change them now, actually, but there really wasn’t any point when Spike was just going to sweat all over them and then probably do worse to them in a couple of hours. “No cold shower this time?”

“I reckon our best chance of you catching a wink is saturation and then pulling the emergency brake.”

“Translate.”

“Fuck a couple of times, then you knock off and I go take an ice bath when you lying all over me stops cutting it.”

Angel nodded. They lay on the bed in silence for a few minutes. “Anytime soon?”

“Randy bastard,” Spike told him, almost fondly.

“I’m just tired.”

“You haven’t shagged this much since you were soulless, I reckon.” Spike shrugged, and then rolled onto his back to let Angel settle between his legs. “Well, c’mon then. I don’t mind if we speed up the process.”

“I’ll let you stay in this position this time if you promise not to claw at me.” It had been about six hours. Plenty of time for Spike to tighten again. In some ways, vampire bodies were inconvenient. A human would still be open for him, but Spike was probably barely even sore despite all the use his body had seen today.

When he slicked his fingers and slipped one in — easier going this time, maybe he wasn’t completely tight — Spike did something he’d never done before while they were in bed together. He _giggled_. When he was done, he said, “This is more lube than has ever existed between your body and mine, mate.”

“Are you complaining?” He’d usually complained when Angelus took him dry, although he’d seemed to love it sometimes, too. If he was complaining now it just went to show that you couldn’t win with Spike.

“Nah,” Spike told him, and cocked his hips a little upwards, his knees shifting to support his body stretching above the sheets. “Nah, I love it, don’t I?” At least he seemed to, his body moving a little down in a sinuous curve to push onto that finger. “You tearing into me, that’s all well and good from time to time, when I’m in the mood for it, but you can’t deny there’s something sexy in prying a body open so you’ll fit inside it with hardly a hitch.”

If Angel had been breathing his breath would have caught. That was exactly what he was doing, with two fingers now, making a space for himself inside. Spreading them just a little apart to hear Spike breathe out a little sigh, twisting them to stroke over the place inside him that made him shudder. “Who taught you how to talk that way?” he asked. When he’d left them, Spike had been an accomplished crooner, a dab hand at begging, but he’d never usually said anything so filthy to Dru, or to Angelus.

“Skinemax,” Spike said, back starting its graceful arch up off the sheets as he surrendered to the familiarity of the position; on his back with his knees up and parted. In a few minutes the curve of his body would be perfect, pale and unscarred with only the marks of Angel’s teeth on his throat to show that he’d ever been touched. “And my sterling grammar school education. Want me to say it again in Latin?”

Kind of. “No.”

Spike wasn’t nearly as tense this time when he sank inside, but his body still went loose at the sensation like it was a tremendous release, his collarbones shifting enticingly under his skin as he tipped his head backwards and took a slow, deep breath out. For a moment Angel paused, buried to the hilt in that slim body, looking at the almost-delicate features. It wasn’t like Will had never found any pleasure in his bed, but he’d never looked quite so relaxed as he did now except when he was asleep — even his post-orgasmic lassitude was more wanton than serene. He started to take strong, measured thrusts, feeling every inch of the tight clutch around him, and he watched the sharp features as they shifted to something more expressive, the mouth tagging open a little, the eyebrows drawing towards the center.

“What, nothing filthy to say now?”

The blue eyes cracked open, and the expression switched rapidly from tranquility to mischief. “What do you want me to say?”

“Well, I think you owe me a thank you.”

Spike could have chosen to roll his eyes and tell him to fuck off. It was mostly what he was expecting. Or maybe a convoluted rant about how it was his fault in the first place, since he’d chosen to work here, which had led to Spike working in the vicinity of demon powders. Instead Spike looked at him almost thoughtfully and said, “Maybe later.” Then he hitched his legs up around Angel’s waist and his arms found their way into a loop around his neck and he pulled him down into a kiss that ended with Angel groaning into his mouth and tugging on his lower lip with his teeth.

The boy _had_ always had a particular fondness for missionary. He’d always thought of it as lack of imagination — Victorians were always so uptight — but it was more probably because Spike had always loved to kiss. He could seemingly be entertained for hours just nuzzling the side of Dru’s face.

So Angel kissed him. Then bit his tongue when he ventured it forward, getting a hiss and a glare and fangs in his lip, which was what he’d wanted. Spike bit down on his next push forward, drawing blood, and when Angel pulled back to look at him next, his lips were smeared with red. He looked more familiar like this, so Angel kissed him again, tasting copper, and got bitten again for his troubles. The nails on his back were present, but not sharp enough to break skin: apparently Spike didn’t care to be flipped again.

Not that he was honestly sure he would go through with it at the moment, even if Spike started raking tally marks down his back. That mouth made a lot of blood worth it; open under his, hot and slick and full of sharp teeth. And Spike felt smaller like this, on his back, with his body curled up to take the punishing thrusts, his hipbones and collarbones giving him a look of frailty that the lean muscles of his back didn’t support.

He was fairly sure Spike would be merciless if he said that to him. _What, can’t get your rocks off without imagining I’m under your thumb again, sire?_ So he didn’t say it, but he reached down between them to grind the heel of his hand against the smooth hot shaft of Spike’s cock. Saturation, that was the idea.

Spike’s body rippled around him when he came, silent for once because his mouth was busy, and Angel kept going, harder than a human could take, no care this time towards easing him kindly through to the next one. The kisses got sloppy and then Spike was mostly just making sounds into his mouth, little cries of not-quite pain at the overstimulation until his face slid into its demon form apparently without his say-so. Angel wasn’t even looking at him, face buried in his throat now, but he knew it anyway, because the gasps for breath started to rumble a little in the pale chest, like half-abandoned growls, as the body under his shook with the force of his thrusts. He let his own demon out, teeth pricking at the pale scars where Dru had bitten him a hundred and twenty years ago, and Spike gave a guttering cry and came again, hot and barely-there between their bellies.

Picking up the pace, now just trying to get himself off, Angel almost didn’t notice when the hands tightened on his shoulders as Spike twisted under him. Didn’t notice the voice in his ear until Spike had been chanting it for a good thirty seconds: “Again, again, fuck, Angel, _again_ — ”

It was dry this time, and sounded agonizing, and Angel hardly managed to squeeze it out of him before he came himself. In point of fact, he wasn’t actually sure who came first. It might have been the tight pull of Spike around him that sent him over, or maybe Spike had jolted with release when Angel had collapsed on top of him, hips still twitching into his body. Either way, it was fairly impressive stamina on Spike’s behalf, although he was now lying silent and still as the dead — well, that was apt — underneath him, as if time had stopped just at the moment of climax.

Slightly worried, Angel opened his eyes and tipped his head to get a look at him, but just then the eyes blinked open, unfocused, and Spike took a shuddering breath. “You okay?” Angel asked him, raising an eyebrow.

“Might’ve knocked me out for a moment there,” Spike muttered. “If you do it again I’ll dust but I might get a good minute of sleep.”

Not a chance. If three times in a quarter-hour wasn’t saturation Angel didn’t know the meaning of the word. “Mm.”

“Don’t fall asleep on top of me, you great lummox,” Spike told him, voice still shaky. “I’m not going to wrestle with your dead weight in the middle of the bloody night.”

That was a fair point, but it was a crying shame, too, because Angel had really missed sleeping with a smaller body trapped under his. He snaked his arms around Spike’s back and rolled over so his limp, pale form was draped over his chest.

He hadn’t had such an easy time getting to sleep since Darla had gotten inside his head.

It was too sodding bright and quiet in here, and that was the truth. They were creatures of the bloody night, weren’t they? Why hadn’t either of them turned off the lamps? Christ, the days of candlelight had been more atmospheric by a long shot, with the flickering and the crackling, and at least those had gone out without help when they hit the base.

He had no evidence to back this up, but Spike believed firmly that if Angel had to breathe, he would snore. As it was, that big bloody chest was motionless under his cheek, the body lax with sleep, although those arms were still fair tangled around his waist.

Angel didn’t have to treat him like such a girl, he thought, knowing it was a bit snotty. So he liked getting fucked blind sometimes. That didn’t mean he needed to be picked up and hauled around, no matter how much either of them liked it. That little roll, big cock still buried in him, strong arms locked around his body, that hadn’t been necessary. Wasn’t even hot. Just manhandling for the sake of manhandling.

Well, a bit hot, maybe.

And if Angelus thought he was getting a docile little kitten to play with whenever he made good on his promise to be Will, he had another think coming. Will had had his wild days, and Spike was going to bite him until he bloody well screamed. If it were anybody but Angel, he’d think about pretending back to when he knew not a damn thing about sex, but since it _was_ Angel, that would just turn the bastard on. He had a _thing_ about virgins.

Was a shame he’d not been able to stay where he’d fallen. At least if he’d been crushed under a couple hundred pounds of Irish corpse he might have been able to get a couple of winks too. And he hated to leave the bed early, particularly when it was because he had a date with a cold shower. It’d been a good long while since he’d gotten to lay with a lover, and the ache in his guts was at an ebb at the moment. Probably because he was skin to skin with the brooding wonder, or maybe because he still had the head of his softened prick inside him. Still, it hadn’t been very long, relatively speaking. Maybe only an hour since Angel had fallen asleep. And it wasn’t as if he could sleep through the less-painful part, either, because the soul was, if nothing else, good for keeping him awake all night and day.

Was a little less shit being sleepless with a good solid body under him. Christ, he really must be buggered if he was thinking anything like that about Angel. It’d been a hundred years and you would think that he would have gotten over the great ponce by now. Only you didn’t forget about the person who’d taught you to fuck. Especially not after they’d fucked you again. Especially not with their prick still caught just that little bit inside you. Just that little bit. The temptation to wriggle down a little further was almost unbearable.

This bloody dust didn’t really make him turned on, not exactly, but he kept managing to turn _himself_ on when he remembered the feeling of _not_ having a knife twisting in his entrails. Feel of Angel there instead, specifically. On the worst of days he liked a good hard fuck well enough, but now he could swear it was nearly a religious experience. Really was ingenious, as Fred had said. Hurt like hell when it wasn’t happening and felt like heaven when it was. It wasn’t so much that he wanted to do it as that he _needed_ it, and needing it was _making_ him want it. If he wasn’t careful he was going to wind up conditioning himself to get a stiffy every time he saw Angel’s ugly mug.

He was hard again, somehow, and Angel was playing dead under him. He tried to remind himself that that had been the point, but it was annoying anyhow, because Angel was annoying. Day was, the bloke would’ve woken _him_ up if he’d felt a hard-on all trapped against his belly. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d woken with that big hand wrapped around him, that low accented voice crooning horrible, degrading shite in his ear that had made him hotter than any whore’s trick Darla could play.

_Your body knows what it’s good for, doesn’t it, Willy? Even when you’re sleeping._

He shuddered at the remembered voice, shutting his eyes to make it more real.

Angel still didn’t wake. Absolutely typical. Spike turned his head to the side to take a breath against the side of his throat, pulling in the scent of poofy cologne and sex and power. He smelled different, these days. Worse, actually, by a long shot. But the difference didn’t seem to matter for the purposes of the brogue uncurling itself into his ear. _If you_ were _sleeping, my boy, I could slide right into you like a woman and you wouldn’t even notice. So loose from your constant begging for my cock_.

Angelus had always had the gift of making brutal insults taste warm in your belly.

Fuck. He was bloody well wrong and Spike knew it because Angelus had tried it before, slipping into him in his sleep, and he’d been slow and easy about it at least relatively to his usual, but Spike had woken to the exquisite sting of that beautiful prick sinking into him anyway. When he’d tried to oblige and pretend to still be unconscious, Angelus had snarled in his ear and fucked him into unconsciousness well and properly.

Bloody hell.

If he could just stop thinking about fucking the great souled mick. But even the worst things Angelus had done to him kept coming back to that big body laying over top of his. The time he’d had whipped Spike until the skin was hanging off his back? Had ended with his knees up about his ears and his brains being shagged out. Time he’d drained him near dry in the street and left him to drag himself in before the sun crisped him? Had ended with him being plowed helplessly up against the floor in the foyer, voice in his ear swearing up and down that he was such a good boy for having made it in.

He was well and truly hard again. Fuck. Thinking about Dru and Darla were no-gos too for obvious reasons. Although, to be fair, the list of people he’d met that he _hadn’t_ thought about shagging at least once was probably only about one name long after you crossed all the kids and seniors off it.

Did old batface count as a senior? If so, maybe no names long once you crossed off the kids and seniors. But even thinking about that old fuck didn’t make his prick unready itself for battle. He’d seen Darla riding the old bastard once. Hair bouncing. Tits —

He snarled, annoyed with himself. Angel, still asleep, gave a rumbling purr in return and tightened his arms around his waist.

Giving up, Spike closed his eyes and tried to meditate. Only that had never worked for him and frankly, neither had baseball stats or thinking about grandpa or the one time he’d tried imagining Giles nagging him to cool off and wound up having the most embarrassing orgasm of his life. Thinking about the pain in his gut, which was getting worse now, also didn’t help, because then he thought about how he could make it stop.

If he didn’t like Fred so much he’d kill the chit for this. But he really did like her, and it was better him taking the faceful of demon Viagra than her, anyhow. Somehow he couldn’t see ol’ Wes getting it up this many times in a row without crying, and that was ignoring the fact that he’d probably cry anyway because it would kill her —

 _That_ thought was better at calming him than Heinrich, the old wanker. He stuck with that train for a while: Fred crumpled on the floor, Buffy lying under the tower, Joyce in the ground, Dawn bloody and unmoving. But then that made him feel like weeping — bloody soul — so he groped around for Lewis instead. _A Grief Observed_. What an absolutely characteristic thing for Angel to read.

Lewis kept him occupied for a bit, so long as he skipped the doubting God parts, because then it made him think of Dru. Angel slipped out of him at some point when he shifted just a little, which made it a little worse, and a little better, because he didn’t have to keep his legs all splayed around the other body anymore. The ache in his guts kept spreading. It really did feel like his body was tightening up, like all the muscles were pulling in somehow and his skin was too small. Like it was trying to create a black hole where Spike used to be, and that did make a little sense if you considered that he didn’t have the sort of anatomy that _melted_ easily.

He’d read Lewis before, though, which was the trouble. He picked up the case file instead and had to put it right down because as soon as he cracked it open he saw a photo of a baby, and that made him remember bad times.

At least killing kids had never got him hard.

Angel had only been sleeping for two hours and some change. But it wasn’t like the old sod knew that — Spike was the one with the good internal clock — and he was asleep anyhow. Spike thought about waking him up and then remembered the clock would give his impatience away. When he tried to reach out to knock it off the bedside table, Angel snuffled — it was sort of cute, if you could apply that word to the bloke — and pulled him tighter again. “’m not your sodding teddy bear,” he muttered, but when he tried to wriggle free, he got another low-chest rumble and then a blunt set of teeth against his shoulder, a familiar unconscious gesture that had been usually applied when a much newer Spike was trapped underneath him and trying to get him up early in the morning.

Because Angel wasn’t awake to hear him embarrassing himself, he whimpered his arousal and annoyance, which was apparently good enough to trigger Little Angelus hardening a little under his hip.

“I hate you so bloody much,” he grumbled.

Except actually he was wishing that the bastard had stayed hard enough to stay in so that he could feel that length stiffening inside him instead of against him. Or that he would fang out and give that bite a little extra oomph.

“’m gonna rip out your spine once you’re awake enough again to feel it,” he whispered, but he didn’t try to wake him to do it. Instead he just wiggled his hips a little, enough to let his prick fall into that groove where the thick muscle in Angel’s belly met his leg — he’d never bloody admit it, never in a million years, but when he’d turned up in Sunnydale all those years back this part of his body hadn’t been near as hot all starveling-carved and picturesque — and find a little relief there, smooth olive skin under his, cool and a little sticky with their spendings.

Well, he might as well get what he paid for. He’d had a thought of not doing this so he could excuse saying no later when Angel asked him to be Will, but it turned out that wasn’t going to be happening. Shit, he felt all hot and itchy. Pain clawing in him, and he _could_ hold out — might be easy, even, he wasn’t so far gone he couldn’t stand it — but he didn’t really want to.

Angel made a self-satisfied sounding leonine growl, and then the muscle under him was shifting so that big bloody cock could press up against him too. Not so much, just slightly. A little soft rolling of those hips. Good job, too. The ponce was much more demanding when he was awake, and frankly, at the moment he was kind of in the mood to just — yeah, that was the ticket. Nice easy rubbing. It’d all been so bloody frantic, because he’d been driving it that way, and because Angel still fucked like a demon. But this. Hard body under him. Big hands on his back. Thick prick crowded up against his belly, his own cradled just right in that soft dip of bone. He snorted. “Guess all that moisturizing is good for something.”

“Mm?” Angel said.

“Shh-hh-hhhhh,” Spike murmured to him, his body rocking against Angel’s. One of the hands splayed out over the small of his back like it was trying to keep him there, which was about all the participation he really required, given that he’d like Angel daisy-fresh and ready for action whenever he woke up. Five hours would do it, yeah? This and then he’d hold off for the full three again.

Felt good, somehow, still after all this bloody pain and frenzied fucking. Rubbing off against somebody else’s flesh. Felt wonderful, actually, once the stimulant started to quit making him feel like his skin was too tight and start feeling so sweet he was almost dizzy with it. Like drinking a hippie at Woodstock.

“Thank god you aren’t Harmony,” he breathed, pushing his hips in slow little sweeps across the line of Angel’s hip. He was leaving a little fluid there now, a little something to slick the way. “Although to be fair, if you were, at least I could fuck your tits.”

Angel tried to turn over. To be fair to him, it was how they had usually slept in the bad old days: Spike pinned under him. But Spike couldn’t get pinned under him this time, so he stopped them with an elbow when he had landed on his side and bent his head to suck at the curve of his neck, the mostly-healed bitemarks there while he was rubbing himself off against Angel’s belly. He wasn’t trying very hard to rub Angel off too — no point when he wasn’t awake to enjoy it — but the old sod was getting something out of it, because his prick was hard and twitching in the little space between them, and when Spike’s mouth hit his neck he made another sleepy rolling purr, barely-audible. “Will.”

If he’d been human, Spike could have checked to see if he was still asleep by listening to his pulse. Instead he had to glance up and see his still-closed eyes, his still-relaxed face. Some idiots could snooze through anything. It was a wonder he’d survived so long as such a heavy sleeper, frankly. Spike had once copped a spanking as a fledgling for waking him up too early in the evening, as he recalled. He wasn’t eager to repeat the experience — or, more accurately, he was, but not now. He doubted spanking would feel so good as the dip he had his cock in now, the smooth, gorgeous friction of skin on skin. “Whoever you want.” He was so bloody hot and he felt so bloody good, and he knew the second it peaked he would be on the uphill climb towards pain again, so he tried to draw it out.

But then Angel’s teeth hit his shoulder again, blunt and possessive, and it was over, and he was coming into the space between them, all up the side of Angel’s belly. Time was, he’d have been made to lick it off, he thought muzzily, limp under the arm around his waist. But he wasn’t a fledge anymore and Angelus could just live with being a bit itchy when he woke up.

Instead he panted into the side of Angel’s face and let him tip just a little further forward, put a little more of his weight on. He was feeling like he’d let his grandsire do damn near anything to him at the moment, the way he always felt when he was flying on the little wave of waning ecstasy that followed orgasm. But although Angel was hard between them still, he slumbered on, and didn’t do a damn thing other than flex his jaw a little, teeth tightening for a moment on Spike’s shoulder before his mouth slowly slipped closed and off and it was just his huge sodding nose pressed against Spike’s collarbone.

When it started to hurt again, he extracted himself and Angel, still half-hard, rolled onto his stomach, the bare line of his muscled back looking golden in the lamplight.

Spike headed for the _fucking_ shower.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry for long pause between updates, i have a job.
> 
> going feral, chaining up, from behind, and biting to keep him still, for maggielafey; impromptu toy usage for gabriel_is_my_guardian_angel89. i wasn't sure whether this meant the toy should be impromptu or the usage should be impromptu so to be safe i went with both and now you have this absolute travesty.
> 
> still upcoming: humiliation, will rp. feel free to add more and i'll try to squeeze them in. this fic is just improv porn.

Angel’s alarm woke him up at eight, and for a moment he was disoriented. The shower was running, although it sounded like it was hitting the floor rather than a body, and the room smelled like sex and cigarette smoke and family. Not a typical morning for him by any stretch of the imagination.

Also, his chest was covered in dried semen.

Stupid fucking childe.

He dragged himself upright and ran a hand through his hair — just to check — and then swung his feet out of bed to head for the bathroom. The door was closed, so he went for the kitchen instead. He was out of blood. Which meant Spike had put away at least another day’s worth. Swearing quietly, he dialed down to the floor to get more sent up, with the instruction that no one should enter the apartment further than to put a container on the floor in front of the elevator. Then he called Fred, who picked up sounding annoyed. “ _What_?”

“Fred?”

“Oh. Angel. Sorry, I was expecting — sorry, I mean. I thought you were — never mind. Supply problems.” A high-pitched laugh that sounded almost hysterical.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“Some,” she said, but she sounded shifty. “How’s Spike?”

“Eating me out of house and home. And he bit me.”

Silence for a moment. “Like, _bit_ you, or _bit you_ bit you?”

He didn’t have the bandwidth before coffee or food to parse that sentence. “What’s the difference?”

Fred’s voice was tiny. He could almost hear her blushing. “Fun biting or not-fun biting?”

“If it were the fun kind would I be telling you about it?” Well, it _had_ been fun. But that was more about him than it was about Spike. “He didn’t hurt me. I just mean his fever’s high and he’s acting — ”

“Sweaty and aggressive?”

“Sweaty and aggressive,” Angel agreed.

“Anything else?”

“When I say he’s eating a lot, I mean a _lot_. Three days’ worth and he drank from me a little. And I’ll bet he’s still hungry.”

“Well, he is burning a lot of energy.”

“So am I.”

“Not as _much_.”

“You’d be surprised,” Angel muttered. Spike wasn’t a demanding lover the same way Darla had been, but he did have a way of running you ragged. “Look, if you want to send up anything for me to check him with, I’ll do it. You probably don’t want to be up here right now.”

Another giggle. “No, but I bet Lorne would.”

“Goodbye, Fred.”

“I’ll keep working on it! And send you a thermometer and a cup to collect blood in. And maybe a tranquilizer?”

“Good idea.”

The elevator door slid open as he hung up, and Harmony, holding two plastic containers and a thermos, stood there blinking at him. Her mouth fell open into a little lipsticked o and her eyes went wide. Abruptly, he realized he was naked and covered in sweat and come and blood, and he grabbed a statue off the side table to hide at least his crotch behind. “Oh my _god_ ,” she said. “You work out, right?”

“What?” He glanced down at himself. Spike was full of shit. He looked fine. “Of course I — Harmony — ”

The elevator door started to close on her. She stuck out the thermos hand to keep it from shutting. “Ooh, because I can send you my tummy sculpting routine. It’s really good, I mean — ” For a second, she looked like she was about to pull up her blouse and show him, but then he watched her realize that that would be inappropriate. Her face screwed up as she tried to figure out what the _appropriate_ behavior for talking to a naked man hiding behind a statue in a room that smelled like sex was when that man was the one who signed your paychecks. Finally, she thrust her arms forward, holding out the blood. “ — I brought your blood, boss.”

She pressed it into his hands and then tried to hit the “close door” button as subtly as possible. The subtlety was ruined in some ways by the fact that when the door didn’t close immediately, she started jamming the button. “I am _not_ fat,” Angel growled at the doors when they finally shut. He didn’t poke himself in the stomach to test the muscle depth, but only because he had his hands full of blood and statue.

“Sorry!” she called, muffled by steel, just before the elevator started moving.

He put the blood in the fridge instead of thinking about the fact that Harmony having seen him naked meant the steno pool was probably going to know about all his body flaws in the next thirty minutes. Heating up a mug of it — better eat before Spike got to it — he looked himself over again. He looked _fine_!

How many strips had he said he’d take out of Spike’s back, again? Seventeen? Maybe he should raise that to an even twenty. For collateral idiocy. Twenty-five, for putting him in a position for Harmony to discover the exact dimensions of his… endowment.

Spike was probably going to bite him again. He fixed another mug.

Half an hour was about as long as he was willing to sit around with dried come flaking off him, and it also happened to be about how long it took him to eat breakfast. Not to mention that he hadn’t seen Spike since he’d fallen asleep last night, and didn’t technically know if he was dead or undead, so he decided that it was his shower, and closed door or not, he was going in. It wasn’t like they’d never bathed together before. In fact, he was pretty sure that a scene of Spike straddling him in a claw-footed tub had featured heavily in his masturbatory fantasies in the seventies.

The room was cold and dark and when he flipped the lights on, there was condensation on the outside of the shower enclosure. Based on the shape behind the glass — admittedly hard to discern because Spike wasn’t that much different in color from white tile — Spike was curled up on the shower floor out of the stream of the water. Angel swore and ripped the door open, hissing when the freezing water hit him in the face. He reached for the knob and twisted it off so he could get a better look at the damage.

On the bright side, Spike wasn’t unconscious: he scrambled upright, startled by the one-two punch of the lights and then Angel’s entrance. On the not so bright side —

“Is that my shampoo?” It was. He didn’t really have to ask; the green glass bottle was unmistakable, and it was also missing from the shelf, which, he noted with annoyance, had been rearranged. He also didn’t really have to ask what it was doing, because he had _eyes_ , but he asked anyway. “Spike, what the hell are you doing?”

“Mm, wazzit loolike,” Spike mumbled incoherently, voice sounding almost alarmingly scratchy, eyes glazed. His fingers were fumbling to pull the thing out of him, except — no, they weren’t. They were fumbling — or maybe shaking with the cold? — but that was definitely _not_ pulling _out_.

Angel turned on the hot water and then went to his knees on the tile. Up closer, Spike looked like shit. Dark circles under his eyes, hair plastered to his skull, teeth chattering. Muscles quivering, either with cold or exertion, it was hard to say. How someone covered in water could look sweaty was beyond him, but it probably had something to do with the fact that his face was flushed brightly, clashing horribly with the otherwise pale skin, and his eyes looked unfocused. “You’re fucking yourself with my shampoo bottle,” Angel told him, as calmly as he could, as if Spike could possibly have missed that fact. It was argan oil, actually (mix with shampoo twice a week for hydration) but that seemed beside the point. The bottle was fairly slim, but it was still doing an admirable job of stretching his rim out, pink and smooth around the dark glass. “Why the hell didn’t you wake me up?”

And then Angel’s head was smacking backwards into the tile as Spike slammed him to the floor. For a second, he was dizzied, and when he wasn’t anymore, Spike was kneeling over him framed by the hot water that was starting to come down. Angel tried to get up again, but Spike shoved him back down and started to ride against his stomach, movements jerky and uncoordinated and hands all grasping and shaky against his chest.

It was plain that Spike was not going to talk to him about this, and the cold top of the bottle was jammed up against his leg, and Spike was riding it with a face like it hurt, not nearly so blissed out as he’d been every time Angel had slid inside him so far. He didn’t look like he was about to keel over, but then again, he also didn’t look like he had all of his marbles, either.

Did Spike _ever_ have all his marbles? That would be a funnier joke if Spike’s inner lights were on to hear it.

When he tried to sit up, tried to reach around to move their bodies into a better configuration, Spike growled at him, low and feral. He wouldn’t even let Angel get his fingers on the top of the bottle without rumbling in his general direction. Which was stupid, because it didn’t look like the bottle was really doing the job, and Angel was, frankly, happy to replace it with something _longer_ , if not necessarily thicker.

If he’d learned anything from nearly three hundred years of hitting things for fun or a living, it was that if a frontal assault didn’t do the trick, you sometimes had to sneak in from the back. He bent upwards for a kiss, and slipped his hands over the the bumps of Spike’s ribs, wandering towards his back at a pace totally incongruous with the clip Spike was setting.

It was a terrible kiss. Spike was dripping hot water on him and still bouncing determinedly against his hip, and he was going to have a bruise there from where Spike was shoving that cap into him. It took most of Angel’s concentration to avoid Spike’s teeth inflicting accidental damage, considering the way he was moving. It was possible, actually, that it was the worst kiss he’d had from Spike since he’d helped to teach him how in the first place.

But it was distracting enough to let him slide his hands down the planes of Spike’s back until he could get a double handful of his ass to help him move, urging him into a rhythm that was less gratuitously frantic. When that didn’t garner a protest of any kind, he started to move his right hand inward.

Spike bit Angel’s tongue when his fingers hit dead center, but went easy again when he just pushed the bottle in a little further. After that, he would let Angel get a grip on the neck of it, so long as he was using that grip to move it gently inside him, little in and out motions that he exaggerated a little more with every pull until Spike was letting him shove it into and out of him and making eager gasping sounds.

He was almost tempted to forget the point of doing this was rescuing his (organic, cruelty-free, expensive) hair products from Spike’s ass. The seventies bathtub fantasy had been mostly based on the fact that when Spike was warm and loose and shimmering with water he looked almost criminally touchable. It certainly didn’t hurt that he was bucking against Angel’s hand, circling his hips in tight little motions with that twisted, not-quite-enough expression on his face that made you want to keep him unsatisfied just so he’d go on looking like that.

That really was the sort of thing Angelus would have done. Kept him panting on a string. Angel kissed him again, and decided this had been tease enough.

In one smooth movement, on an outstroke, he eased the bottle out all the way, and apparently that had been the wrong thing to do, because instead of just sinking down on his cock, Spike lashed out — the bottle, knocked from his hand, banged loudly against the tile but didn’t shatter, mercifully — and Angel was forced to toss him out of the still-half-open shower door to keep the scene from turning bloody. Spike gave as good as he got, hitting him from the side to shove him out the bathroom door when he emerged from the steam and leaping after him as he fell, fangs out.

Then the fight was on.

Spike had beaten him once. That was true. But _only_ once, and then he’d wanted to win so badly that Angel believed in hindsight he’d barely stood a chance without dusting another family member, which, although it wasn’t the worst idea in the world, also wasn’t his preference. Angel had him in strength and reach and experience. In raw power, Spike just couldn’t compete. His main advantages were speed, tenacity, and ruthless creativity, but he wasn’t at the top of his game with regards to two of those things at the moment, and you could only make up so much ground with pure willpower.

That was to say: Angel pitched him to the ground, and he rolled, lunged, managed to regain his footing only to get knocked over again, but this time he took Angel with him. In a close-quarters grappling match, he was pretty much the guaranteed loser, and it only took Angel a few minutes to pin him down, the two of them snarling like alley dogs.

“Don’t _make_ me chain you down,” Angel told him warningly, but Spike just kneed him hard in the stomach and regained the upper hand.

“ _Want_ — ” he growled, raspy and golden-eyed, and when Angel started rolling his hips to buck their bodies together, Spike’s hands around his wrists loosened just slightly in distraction. His breath caught with want, and just in that second where he closed his eyes to bully through it, Angel broke free and they staggered upright, coming together again in a brief clash before Angel got a hand on him and physically threw him partway across the room, onto the bed, which squealed alarmingly and almost bounced him clear off the other side. He probably would have gone over, in fact, if he hadn’t been so concentrated on getting back up for another attack. It would have been the smart thing to do — put more space between them. But then again, Spike had _never_ been smart that way.

Once they were re-enacting the grappling match on the bed, Angel rapidly dominated the fight again. After a furious struggle — Harmony was probably giggling downstairs now that she knew what was making so much noise — he finally had Spike on his front, still thrashing and trying to push against him and claw backwards in his direction at once. He was trying to think of the fastest way to get to the manacles hidden under the bed — a precaution he’d taken ever since Sunnydale and Angelus — when Spike bucked so hard he nearly unbalanced them, and had to be re-pinned. There was no way he could fasten those cuffs with Spike acting so wild; he needed both hands just to hold him down, and in fact he was using most of his body weight to do it currently and still only barely keeping him under control. Well, he couldn’t do it without knocking him unconscious, anyway, which would probably have been Angelus’ solution and much more effective than anything he could think of at the moment.

He thought about it.

No, probably uncalled for.

Spike twisted under him, seemingly not caring if he dislocated a shoulder turning over, because Angel let him go just as he heard the cartilage straining and realized it was about to pop. Without thinking, he resorted to brute force to keep Spike still.

He didn’t scream when Angel’s teeth sunk into him from behind, just into the muscle that stretched between his neck and shoulder, hard with exertion and resistant to the bite. And it was — beautiful, to bite something like this. Hot flesh, warm blood, fighting back. Angel felt a little dirty at how good it made him feel when Spike jolted like he’d been electrified and made a strangled sort of moan under the pressure, going briefly still the way his instincts were probably screaming at him to do before he started struggling again.

Distantly, he tried to remember to be impressed later how Spike was resisting the submission to his sire that the bite was insisting on. Admittedly, he wasn’t his _real_ sire, and maybe that was why, but Spike had never really, substantially failed to treat him like he was. Even for a master vampire, it couldn’t be easy to maintain this level of defiance when faced with a stronger demon who had you in a lock under a thousand pounds per square inch of potential bite force.

The blood in his mouth was hot and tasted like a fight that had already gone on too long. So he increased the pressure of his teeth, and when Spike stilled again, even just for an instant, Angel locked his left wrist in. There was no stilling him for the second wrist, but with the one locked down and him on his front, it wasn’t so hard to get the other one into the cuff.

There were leg chains, too, but it seemed like overkill, and anyway, there was always something to be said for the way the muscles in Spike’s back slid under his skin as he writhed when Angel’s teeth came out of him. “’ma kill you,” Spike told him almost matter-of-factly. “ — gonna — ”

“Shh,” Angel said, which, as expected, earned him a ferocious snarl and another spate of movement. What with how Spike’s body had never seemed to manage to accumulate any padding at all, you could use the flexing of him now to study anatomy: all the little dips and shadows outlining the muscles lying over his shoulderblades and ribs, all the bumps of his vertebrae climbing up to the knob at the top of his spine where he would shriek if Angel bit him. “Let me take care of you.”

Angel bit him again there, just where the bone stuck out under the skin. The sound he got was more like a sob, but it still counted. Spike was open still from his fucking in the shower, so Angel laid himself over his back and pushed in without stretching, without anything other than their bodies together. It wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t quite smooth, either, and Spike groaned, clearly sore but still pushing back into the intrusion. For one long suspended moment Angel stopped just like that, buried inside him. It was the sort of moment where Angelus would have said _now beg for me_ , and laugh when Will was torn between saying _please don’t stop_ and _too much too much_.

And all the lean muscles under him were unwinding now, the body going slack in the restraints, and he wondered — this was an Angelus-like thought, but he didn’t spurn it, anyway — how long Spike would stay here, impaled on him and apparently experiencing some sort of repletion, his frame loose and, for the moment, content.

The answer turned out to be about three minutes. After one and a half he was squirming, after two and a half he was making little burring growls deep in his throat, and after three he was struggling to get his knees up under him and grind backwards. It was a little awkward — he was uncoordinated, muscles still soft and relaxed, and he had to brace on his elbows since he couldn’t quite get his hands underneath him because of the length of the chain — but it was easy and sweet and, really, the sort of thing he would have petted and praised Will for, way back when. Him holding himself still, whispering _show me how you want me, childe_ into his ear, feeling rather than seeing it as Will released a bare inch of him at a time, pushed back to swallow it up again as if he couldn’t abide not having Angelus’ prick sitting inside him.

Back then it had been a torture of sorts to pull almost all the way out, and he had always made these plaintive hollowed-out sounds when Angelus had teased him with the head of his cock, just about to slip free of him. Then the reward, the slam inwards, the cry. This was a different sort of torture, and the only way you could tell was by the way his body was twitching with desperation against Angel’s chest as he tried to scratch whatever that itch was deep inside him. “Christ, Angel,” he said, voice rough and pleading, his first clear words since Angel had found him in the shower. “Why won’t you — why — ”

“Look how lovely you are when you can’t help yourself,” Angel murmured against his ear, and Spike shuddered almost violently. “You feel good, don’t you, Will?” He laid his palm beneath them across Spike’s quivering stomach between his hips, using it to press him back up against his chest. Spike made a noise like he’d been punched in the gut. “Feel good right here?”

“Bastard,” Spike managed, but his body was shaking and his head hung between his shoulders, the bright red marks of Angel’s biting standing out starkly on his shoulder and back.

“Take what you need.”

Spike began to shove back on him again, wanton movements that shook through the muscles in his back, tightened him up around Angel’s cock and pulled his belly tight and trembling under the hand on it. Angel could taste the words he wasn’t saying on his tongue. _Are you my pretty little whore, Will? Say it, sweet boy. Say it. Say you’re mine_.

Angelus, for all his faults, had been affectionate when he wanted to be. And it had always broken Spike’s self-control to dust. Angel knelt there unmoving and let his boy wriggle on his prick, trying to give himself the good hard fuck that he wanted but not quite able to summon the force in this position, in this condition. The chains rattled as Spike tried to use them as leverage, and for a moment it even worked, but he could see the fine skin of his wrists bruising under the metal as it happened, and Angel made a _shh_ sound again and crushed him back onto his belly, robbing him of what little power he’d managed to get up on his knees.

It pressed that hand of his a little harder into Spike’s stomach, flattened between him and the bed, and Spike made a low furious sound and tried to shake him off half-heartedly. He ground the heel of his hand a little upwards like he might be able to feel himself through the soft skin there as if to calm him, but of course it only made him jerk under his hands and try to get his knees back under him.

But just as Angel had him in strength, he had him in weight. Spike could move his limbs, but since his wrists were chained to the bed, it wouldn’t do him much good. And when Angel had laid there heavy against his back and hard inside him — long enough that Spike was starting to pant unnecessarily and squirm underneath him — he locked his teeth back into the bitemark he’d left before at the join of Spike’s shoulder and neck, and felt purring satisfaction when his boy went still under the grip.

“Fucking — damn you — ” A jangle in earnest here as Spike pulled against the chains again. “Don’t just fuckin’ sit there in me like a log, Angelus, fuck me.”

 _Beg me_ , he might have said once upon a time. But it wasn’t really fair to make Spike beg when it was technically a matter of life and death. Instead he put a little more weight behind his teeth, tasted the new welling of copper on his tongue. There wasn’t much variety in a vampire’s diet, eating blood all the time. Particularly not in eating animal blood, which so often tasted like pure fear or chemicals or nothingness. Spike ate food, probably to remedy that, but Angel — Angel had had Dru on his tongue in Sunnydale and Buffy the next year and Darla after that and now —

Well, he was used to self-denial. He could wait out those gaps for the taste of something good like this in between. Spike always tasted like passion, like sex, even with pigs’ blood running through his system, and now it was hot in his mouth, the way he’d imagined it must have been for Dru all those years ago turning him in that alley. And he wasn’t even drawing it in, just letting it well up around his fangs and get caught on his tongue against the flesh.

“Angel!” Spike insisted, and did his level best to thrash underneath him. It didn’t work, not when Angel had him in this hold, the one he’d always used to keep him under control as a fledgling, to calm him down out of one of his temper tantrums. “Angel — don’ just — ”

An angry cry when Angel, still motionless, took a draw of his blood and pressed up a little harder with his hand. But then Angel braced himself against the mattress and started to fuck him with hard rolling motions and the fury subsided into sweet, winded grunting, like every powerful thrust into his body was tapping up against his lungs and forcing out the air he didn’t really need.

“Angel,” he panted, breathless. He was trying to pull against the chains again now, and he was rubbing those delicate wrists of his raw; Angel could smell the blood at the surface, the skin starting to rub open. “Don’t you _dare_ bloody stop.”

He hadn’t, of course he hadn’t. But then Spike’s head lolled to the side and he realized what that plea meant. “Want me in you there too?” he asked.

Spike made a disgusted noise, like Angel was possibly the stupidest person on the planet, and maybe he was. Maybe he was, because he hadn’t had it this good since Buffy and the day that hadn’t happened, and that sort of good was dangerous. But he didn’t think Spike could get him that sort of _good_. It was impossible not to remember, when he was buried in this body, when he had it lashed and stretched out on his bed, bleeding from his mouth and stretched hot around his cock —

It was impossible not to remember that this man should be dead a hundred years ago. The same consumption that had had his mother, probably. Only he wasn’t dead, and when Angel slipped fangs back into him he groaned so loud Buffy could probably hear it in Italy. No rest for the wicked, not when you’d turned this pretty boy into your pretty slut, and you knew it. William way back when would never have thought of going belly down and crying for another man’s prick; and Spike looked so much like William just now, bloody throat and hot body and choked little whimpering sounds making their way out of him, the same way Will had done so long ago the first time Angelus had sunk him down onto his prick, into his lap. Sweet and needy and wild and beautiful but only in the sort of way that corrupt things always were.

“Ah-hhh-nn,” Spike managed, and came halfway through saying his name again, body tightening like a bow and slumping underneath him. When Angel released his teeth once more, he thrust in just that little bit harder, to make the wound throb, and then he was shooting off, filling Spike inside. Cool and dead and Spike sighed in bliss at the feeling of it, eyes fluttering shut where his head was turned sideways to get a half-look at Angel when he’d been talking.

Angel didn’t get off him. Spike made no move to attempt to elbow him away; he was still panting and looked dizzy and flushed and like he needed another shower.

The silence was total but for that sound: Spike’s harsh force of habit breathing.

“So…” Angel said, finally. “You’re buying me new shampoo.”

“What’s it cost, a dollar per mL?”

“Something like that.”

A snort. “You’re on your own, mate.”

“Why would you even — ?”

Spike sighed. “Seems it doesn’t matter so much that it’s you as that it’s _not_ me. Doesn’t take it all away, but keeps the edge off it. Suppose I’d do it again if you’re running out of steam, old man. Would hold me over for a bit.”

“I don’t own any toys, but I can go see if I have a candle.”

The reply was muffled in the pillow, and Spike jerked away from him when he went to undo the cuffs. “Fuck off, Angel.” Angel snorted, and dropped his hands. There was a pause. “Also, what sort of thick-headed blighter keeps his shampoo in a thin glass bottle but doesn’t own a single bloody vibrator? Where’s the justice?”

“It’s argan oil, actually, and it’s not that thin. You just have a lot of practice at shoving things up your ass.”

“Yeah — things like my _vibrator_. Join us in the twenty-first century, old man.”

“Us?”

“Yeah. Stole Harm’s. It’s pink, but you learn to live with that.”

Angel didn’t bother to try not to snicker at that.


End file.
